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AUSTRALIAN    POETS 

1 788-1888 

BEING  A    SELECTION  OF  POEMS  UPON  ALL   SUBJECTS 

WRITTEN  IN  AUSTRALIA    AND  NEW  ZEALAND 

DURING  THE  FIRST  CENTURY  OF  THE  BRITISH  COLON fZ A  TION 

WITH  BRIEF  NOTES  ON   THEIR  AUTHORS  AND 

AN  INTRODUCTION  BV  PATCH ETT  MARTIN 


EDITED    BY 

DOUGLAS    B.   W.    SLADEN,  B.A.  Oxon. 

B.A.   LL.B.   Melbourne,  Australia 

AUTHOR   OF 
"■AUSTRALIAN    LYRICS,"     "a   POETRY   OF   EXILES."    ETC.,    ETC, 


NEW    YORK 

CASSELL    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 
104  &  106  Fourth  Avenue 


Copyright, 

i8qo, 
By  O.  M.  DUNHAM. 


'9 


Q  ^'^)  c^ 


EDMUND  GOSSE, 

WHOSE    EXQUISITE   CRITICAL    FACULTY   IS    AS   CONSPICUOUS 

IN    HIS   POEMS   AS    IN    HIS    LECTURES    ON    POETRY, 

I    VENTURE   TO    DEDICATE 

trbis  IDolumc, 

\VRITTEN    BEYOND   THE    SEAS, 

THOUGH    IT   BASES    ITS    HOPES   NOT   SO   MUCH    ON   THE    DAINTINESS 

OF    ITS    ROSES    AS    ON    THE    VIGOUR    OF     TS    BRIARS. 


4974-16 

LIB  SETS 


POETICAL  JUSTICE. 

Our  busiest  thinkers  are  idle  dro7ies 

hi  the  eyes  of  the  workaday  world : 
And  the  songs,  that  echo  the  angels'  tones. 

Are  but  leaves  of  the  autu?nn,  whirled 
By  the  breath  of  the  fi-ost  from  up  in  the  sky, 

To  the  dullard  7vho  dwells  in  the  vale, 
And  spurns  them,  as  over  his  path  they  lie 

In  the  lull  between  gale  and  gale. 

D.  B.    IV.  S. 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE. 


The  name  of  Douglas  B.  W.  Sladen,  Australia's 
poet  laureate,  is  well  known  outside  the  big  island  which 
he  has  made  his  home.  A  little  over  a  year  ago  Mr.  Sla- 
den visited  this  country  for  purposes  connected  with  his 
literary  work,  and  he  was  cordially  received  by  Ameri- 
can men  of  letters  to  whom  his  name  had  long  been 
familiar. 

Although  an  Australian  by  residence  and  marriage, 
Mr.  Sladen  is  an  Englishman  by  birth  and  education. 
He  took  open  classical  scholarships  at  Cheltenham 
College,  and  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  and  graduated  B.A. 
with  a  "  first  class  "  in  modern  history.  He  then  emi- 
grated to  Melbourne,  where  he  graduated  B.  A.  and 
LL.B.,  and  in  1882  was  appointed  to  the  chair  of  History 
in  the  University  of  Sydney.  This  he  resigned  in  1884 
and  returned  to  England.  He  has  published  "  Frithjof 
and  Ingebjorg,"  "  Australian  Lyrics,"  Poetry  of  Exile," 
"  A  Summer  Christmas,"  "  In  Cornwall  and  Across  the 
Sea,"  and  "  Edward  the  Black  Prince  ";  also  two  novels, 
"  Dick  Stalwart,  an  Oxonian,"  and  "  Seized  by  a  Shadow." 
More  recently  he  has  edited  the  volume  of  "  Australian 
Ballads  and  Rhymes"  in  William  Sharp's  Canterbury 
Poets  Series,  and  the  present  volume,  "Australian Poets." 


IV  PUBLISHER  S     NOTE. 

Mr.  Sladen  is  undoubtedly  the  most  active  of  all  who 
have  been  engaged  in  making  Australian  writers  and 
literature  known  to  English  and  American  readers,  and 
in  this  collection  he  has  done  them  the  best  possible  ser- 
vice by  placing  the  best  of  their  work  within  the  easy 
reach  of  all  lovers  of  poetry  and  those  who,  while  not 
necessarily  men  of  letters,  are  interested  in  the  literary 
work  of  a  young  country. 

Mr.  Sladen's  "To  the  Reader,"  and  Mr.  A.  Patchett 
Martin's  essay,  "  Concerning  Australian  Poets,"  say  all 
that  is  necessary  to  be  said  by  way  of  introduction  to 
this  book.     The  poems  speak  for  themselves. 


COKTENTS. 


Dedication v 

To  THE  Reader.     By  the  Editor      ...                .  xix 

Concerning  Australian   Poets.      By   A. '  Patchctt 

Martin xxxi 

Francis  W.  L.  Adams,  Queensland — 

Love's  Light  and  Tune.     Poetical  Woi-ks  {Biisha.ne  Ed.).      .  i 

Af,'nosta.     Puetical  rF()?-A-s  (Brisbane  Ed. ).    ....  2 

World-wounded.     Poetical  TFoj^As  (Brisbane  Ed.).        .         .  3 

Dunce-song.     Poetical  Works  (Brisbane  Ed.).        ...  3 

Alpha  Crucis,  New  South  Wales— 

In  the  Uplands. — Morning.     Songs  of  the  Stars  and  Other 

Poems 4 

„                Noon.     Songs  of  the  Stars         ...  9 

„                Night.    Songs  of  the  Stars         ...  14 

Emma  Frances  (Mrs.  W.  J.)  Anderson,  Soutli  Austmlia 
(1842-1868)— 

The  Song  of  a  Life.     Colonial  Poems 20 

No  Room  for  tlie  Dead.     Colonial  Poems     ....  22 

Evening  :  a  Fragment.     Colonial  Poems       ....  23 

Thoughts  on  Ending  the  Year  1867.     Colonial  Pucms           .  24 

Anonymous,  South  Australia— 

A  Voice  from  the  Bush.     South  Austral ian  Ecaisler  .        .  25 

Austral  (Mrs.  J.  G.  "Wilson),  New  Zealand — 

Compensation.     The  Australasian        .....  29 

The  Forty-Mile  Busli.     The  Australasian    ....  30 

A  Spring  Afternoon,  New  Zealand.     The  Australoiian        .  31 

Fair\laiid.     2'ke  Australasian 32 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

AuSTRALlE  (Mrs.  Hubert  Heron),  New  South  Wales— 

The  Quiet  Dust.  The  Balance  of  Pain  ....  34 
The  AYeathorboard  Fall.  I'he  Balance  of  Pain  ...  35 
The  Buddawong's  Crown.     The  Balance  of  Pain  .         .       39 

AUSTRALIS  (Dr.  Patrick  Moloney),  Victoria— 

Sonuets— Ad  lunuptam.     An  Easter  Omelette      ,         ,         .      42 

L.  Avis  (C.  Watkins),  New  Zealand — 

O  Te-Kapuka.    New  Zealand  Paper 45 

Arthur  J.  Baker,  South  Australia— 

If  we  should  Meet.     Incidents  in  my  Life    ....       46 

Alexander  Bathgate,  New  Zealand — 

Maungatua.     iVcw  Zealand  Paper 47 

The  Clematis.     Neiv  Zealand  Paper    .....  49 

On   Hearing   a   Yellowhammer  sing  near   Duntdin.     Kcin 

Zealand  Paper        ........  50 

Songs  of  the  Season.     New  Zealand  Paper  ....  51 

Beth  (Mrs.  Caswell),  New  Zealand- 
Beautiful  Stars.     New  Zealand  Paper         ....      55 

H.   H.  BlACKHAM,  South  Australia- 
Forsaken  Homes  and  Graves.     Manuscript .         .         .         .56 
Etchings  on  the  Air.     Manuscript 5a 

E.  B.  (Mrs.  J.  A.)  Bode,  South  Australia— 

The  Lubra.     Original  Poems 60 

Thomas  Bracken,  M.H.R.,  New  Zealand  (1843)— 

Old  Beudigo.  Lays  of  tlie  Land  of  the  Maori  and  the  Moa  64 
From  the  Waterfall.     Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori  and 

the  Moa 66 

In  the  Temple.  Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori  and  the  Moa  67 
Good-Night  to  Baby.     Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori  and 

the  Moa 69 

Not  Understood.     Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori  and  the 

Moa 69 

Mother's  Grave.     Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori  and  the  Moa  71 

At  Sunset.     Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori  and  the  Moa     ,  72 

John  Bright,  Carpentaria — 

The  Lund  of  Dreams.      IVattle  Blossums  and  Wild  Flowers .      73 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

(Sir)  Frederick  Napier  Broome,   New  Zealand  and 
AVest  Australia  (1842) — 

A  Temple  Service.     Poems  from  New  Zealand     ...  75 

William  Carleton,  Jun.,  Victoria— 

The  Skipper's  Bride.     Australimi  Paper     ....  8a 

(Miss)  Jennings  Carmichael,  Victoria— 

A  "Wreath  from  Adam's  Garden.     The  Australasian   .         .  86 

Tomboy  Madge.     The  Weekly  Tines,  Melbourne          .        .  87 

Tlie  Bushrangers.     The  Australasiltn  .....  90 

Fennel  in  the  Wine.     The  Australasian       ....  92 

(]\liss)  Ethel  Castilla,  Victoria — 

An  Australian  Girl.     Melbourne  Paper        •        •        •        •  95 

Alfred  T.  Chandler,  Victoria  and  South  Australia  (1S52)— 

At  Dusk.     A  Bush  Idiill 96 

In  the  City.     A  Bush.  Idyll  .         .         .         ....  97 

Curley.     A  Bush  Idyll 99 

Marcus  Clarke,  Victoria  (1847-1S81)— 

In  a  Lady's  Alhum.     Sent  by  Palchctt  Martin      .        .         .  105 

Ten  Years  Ago.     Once  a  Month,  Melbourne         .         .        .  106 

Nellie  S.  Clerk,  Victoria— 

At  Eventide.     Sonys  from  the  Gippsland  Forest  .         .         .  108 
I  Slept.     Songs  from  the  Gippsland  Forest   .         ,         .         .111 

Victor  J.  Daley,  New  South  Wales- 
Life  and  Death.     Victorian  Review      .        .        .i       .        .  115 

J.  F.  Daniell,  Victoria— 

The  Jubilee  of  Melbourne.     Rhymes  for  the  Times       .        .114 

E.  Wilson  Dobbs,  Victoria  and  Tasmania— 

In  Memoriam,  Charles  George  Gordon.     Tasinanian  Paper  116 


Alfred  Domett,  C.M.G.,  New  Zealand  (1811-18S7)— 

The  Prelude  to  Ranolf  and  Amohia.     Ranolf  and  Amoliin 

Miroa's  Story.     Ranolf  and  Amohia 

Ijove  and  Nature  Luxuriant.     Ranolf  and  Amohia 

Trees  and  the  Tree-God.     liano'f  and  Amohia     . 

The  Haunted  Mountain.     Ranoif  and  Amohia     . 

Lillie  Raymond.     Flotsam  and  Jetsam 

A  Christmas  Hymn.     Flotsam  and  Jdsam  . 


118 
120 
121 
127 

134 
136 
140 


I 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Lindsay  Duncan  (Mrs.  T.  C.  Cloud),  South  Australia- 
Whispers.     Adelaide  Paper  ......     142 

Hush.     Adelaide  Paper .     145 

Eureka  (John  Sheridan),  Queensland — 

Queensland.     Queensland  Paper  .        .        .        j        .        .     146 

DuGALD  Ferguson,  New  Zealand  (1840) — 

Hard  Eows  the  "World.     Castle  Gay,  and  othtv  Poems         .     148 

William  M.  Ferrar,  Tasmania- 
Jubilee  Ode.     Tasmanian  Paper 149 

Earron  Field,  New  South  Wales- 
Sonnet — On  visiting  the  spot  where  Captain  Cook  and  Sir 
Joseph  Banks  first  landed  iu  Botany  Bay.     Field's  Neiu 
South  Wales 150 

Alexander  Forbes,  Queensland— 

The  Shepherd's  Grave.     A  Voice  from  the  Bush  .         .         .     151 

William  Forster,  New  South  Wales  (1818-188-)— 

Sonnets  Written  at  the  time  of  the  Crimean  War.     Barton's 

Poets  and  Prof:e  Writers  of  New  South  Wales 
Time  was  when  3-6  Bore  it  Bravely.     Midas 
Hither  walks  the  Winsome  Stranger.     Midas 
Happiest  wlio  tlie  Soul's  Ideal.     Midas 
Our  Existence  must  we  Measure.     Midas     . 
The  Love  in  her  Eyes  lay  Sleeping.     Midas 
Cassandi'a.     Midas 


I  S3 
155 
157 
159 
159 
161 
162 


Isabella  Cockburn  Giles,  South  Australia — 

A  Jubilee  Hymn.     Adelaide  Paper 165 

Frances  Tyrrell  Gill,  Victoria— 

Beyond  the  Shadows-Light.     Australian  Paper  .         .     166 

The  Difference.     Australian  Paper 170 

Spring's  Messengers  in  Australia.    Australian  Paper  .         .     172 

Keighley  Goodchild,  Victoria- 
Waif's  Wedding.     Who  are  You  1 174 

Too  Late.      TCAo  are  You  ? 176 

Too  Good  to  Fight.     Who  are  You  I 178 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon,  South  Australia  and  Victoria 
(1833-1870)— 
All  Night  I've  heard  the  Marsh-Frog's  Croak.    The  Austra- 
lasian     ..........     181 

An  Exile's  Farewell.     Temple  Bar 184 

Lay  me  Low,  My  Work  is  Done.     Manuscript    .         ,        .     603 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGB 

Arthur  Green,  Tasmania — 

The  Angel-Reaper's  Choice.     Leaflet i86 

Henry  Halloran,  C.M.G.,  New  South  Wales  (iSii)— 

I  wish  Thou  wert  a  Stem  of  Roses.     Barton's  Potts  and 

I'rose  Writers  of  New  South  Wales         ....  i88 
Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  a  Child.     Barton's  Poets  and  Prose 

Writers  of  New  South  Wales 189 

Anniversary  Ode.     Poems,  Odes,  and  Songs          .         .         .  190 

Jubilee  Ode.     Poems,  Odes,  and  Songs          ....  194 

Ou  the  Death  of  Prince  Leopold.     Poems,  Odes,  and  Songs  195 

Charles  Harpur,  New  South  Wales  (1812-1868) — 

Dora.     Volume  Published  by  George  Robertson  <£;  Co.   .         .  197 

Onward.     Volume  Published  by  George  Robertson  cD  Co.       .  198 

To .     Volume  Published  by  George  Robertson  d-  Co.    .  199 

The  Vision  of  the  Rock.    Volume  Published  by  George  Robert- 
son dj  Co.         .         .                 202 

Love   Dreaming   of   Death.     Volume  Published  by  George 

Robertson  ch  Co 205 

A  Midsummer's  Noon  in  the  Australian  Forest.     Volume 

Published  by  George  Robertson  <b  Co 208 

The  Cloud.     Volume  Published  by  George  Robertson  tfc  Co.  .  210 

Mary  Arden.      Volume  Published  by  George  Robertson  d;  Co.  212 

Philip  Dale  HxVVILAND,  New  South  ^^'ales — 

An  Australian  Forest.     Austral ian  Paper             ,        .         .  213 

Ebenezer  Stokry  Hay  (Fleta),  New  Zealand- 
Prometheus.     Victorian  Revieiu 215 

Prometheus  and  Asia.     Victorian  Review     ....  215 
Isabel.     Some  Characteristics  of  WordswortK's  Poetry,  and 
their  Lessons  for  us,  an  Essay,  and  some  Poetry  by 

Fleta 216 

In  a  Garden                             ,,                               ,,  218 

Two  Sonnets                            ,,                               „  219 

A  Song                                      „                               „  220 

Despair                                     ,,                                „  221 

Thomas  Heney,  New  South  Wales — 

The  Flower  Everlasting.     Fortunate  Days  ....  222 

Salut  a  L'Homme — Wiilt  Whitman.     Fortunate  Days         .  223 

Tiie  Wild  Duck.     Fortunate  Days        .....  225 

A  Song  of  Flowers.     Fortunate  Days  .....  226 

Wood-Notes.     Fortunate  Days 227 


CONTENTS. 


Philip  J.  Holdsavokth,  New  South  Wales — 

Australia.     Staiion-Huniing  on  the  Warrego        .        .         .  230 

At  the  Vallej'  of  the  Popran.  Station-Hunting  on  the  Warrego  234 

Hymn  to  Peace.     Slation-Hvnting  on  the  Warrego      ^         .  235 

The  Astronomer.     Station-Hunting  on  the  Warrego    .         .  238 

Hast  Thou  Forgotten  Me.     Station-Hunting  on  the  Warrego  238 

Love's  Liimentation.     Station-Hunting  on  the  Warrego       .  239 
Quis  Sejjarabit.     Station-Hunting  on  the  Warrego        .        .241 

John  Hood,  Victoria — 

Those  Years.     Manuscript 604 

r.  R.  C.  Hopkins,  New  Soutli  AYales — 

To  a  Little  Friend.     Manuscript 242 

Richard  Henry  [Hengist]  Horne,  Victoria- 
Orion.    Book  III.,  Canto  L     Orion 243 

Orion.     Book  III.,  Canto  II.     Orion    .....  254 

John  Howell,  South  Australia- 
Twilight  on  the  Sea-Shore.    Rosc-Leaves  from  an  Australian 

Garden    ..........  258 

The  Stars.     Rose-Leaves  from  an  Australian  Garden  .         .  260 
The  Brotherhood  of  Nature.  Rose-Lcavtsfrom  an  Australian 

Garden    ..........  262 

Beside  the  Sea.     Rose-Leaves  from  an  Australian  Garden  .  264 

John  Liddell  Kelly,  New  Zealand  {1850) — 

Tarawera  ;  or,  The  Curse  of  Tuhotu.     [The  Whole]    .         .  266 

Henry  Clarence  Kendall,  New  South  Wales  (1842- 
1S82)— 

Dedication.     Leaves  from  Aiistralian  Forests       .         .         .  281 

Cleone.     Leaves  from  Australian  Forests     .         .        .    '     .  281 

Coogee.     Leaves  from  Australian  Forests     ....  283 

Eose  Lorraine.     Leaves  from  Australian  Forests  .        .         .  2S6 

On  the  Paroo.     Leaves  from  Australian  Forests  .         .         .  287 

Beyond  Kerguelen.     Sun gs  from  the  Mountains  .         .         .  290 

Hy-P>rasil.     Sow :s  from  the  Mountains         ....  293 

The  Voice  in  the  Wild  Oak.     Songs  from  the  Mountains      .  295 

Narrara  Creek.     Songs  from  the  Blountains  .         .         .        .  298 

Persia.     So7igs  from  the  Mountains       .....  301 

The  Austral  Mouths.     Collccieel  Poems         ....  304 

Margaret  W.  Kitson,  Victoria — 

Homewards.    Manuscript     .        .        .        ,        .        .        .310 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

I'AOE 

Jane  De  ^YI^■TON  (]\Irs.  George)  Knox,  Norfolk  Island 
and  Victoria — 

In  Jest.     MiDniscript 3^^ 

Unblessed.     Manuscript 312 

Unquiet.     Manuscript 3^3 

(The  Rev.)  John  Dunmore  Lang,    New    South  Wales 
(1799-1S78)— 

The   Coral   Insect.     Aurora   Austral  is :   or,    Specimens  of 

Sacred  Poetr II  for  tite  Colonists  of  Australia  ,         .         .  3T4 

The  Heads  of  Port  Jackson.     Aui-oi-a  Austral  is  .         .         .  315 

Sonnet. — O,  I  could  gaze.     Aurora  Austral  is       .         .         .  315 
Sonnet.— Fearful  I  stood  on  the  moss-covered  rock.     Aurora 

Austral  is 316 

Australian  Hj'mn.     Aurora  Australis 316 

(Miss)  Caroline  Leakey,  Tasmania- 
Finis.    Lura  Australis ;  or.  Attempts  to  Sinn  in  a  Strange 

Land 319 

The  Homewaid  Bound.     Lyra  A ustraHs      ....  320 

The  First  of  ^[ay.     Lyra  Australis 321 

The  Crisis.     Lyra  Australis 321 

Sleep  and  Death.    Lyra  Australis 324 

Queen  Ina.     Lyra  A  ustralis •  325 

Frances  Sescadarowna  Lewin,  South  Australia — 

The  Story  of  Abel  Tasman.     Songs  of  the  South    .         .         .328 

Only.     Songs  of  the  South 330 

E.  B.  Loughran,  Victoria — 

He-Meetings.     Australian  Paper 333 

The  Abandoned  Shaft.     Australian  Paper  .         .         .         .  334 

Dead  Leaves  :  A  Song.     Australian  Paper  ....  337 


George  Gordon  M'Crae,  Victoria- 
Richard  Hengist  Home.     Tlie  Australasian 
Lines  Written  for  the  Cook  Centenary.     Manusci-ipt 
Forby  Sutherland,     Manuscript  .... 
lima  De  l\Iurska.     Manufcripjt     .... 
From  "Maniba  the  Bright-Eyed."    Mamha 
The  Auberge.     Manuscript  ... 


339 
341 
345 
349 
352 
358 


(Mrs.)  Harriet  Anne  Martin,  Queensland — 

Sur  Une  Morte.         Manuscript 360 

Transformation.     Manuscript 361 

Romola.     Manuscript 362 

Dame  and  Danseuse.     Manuscript 363 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Arthur  Patchett  Martin,  Victoria  (1851)— 

On  an  Early  Sonnet.     Oak  Bough  and  Wattle  Blossom  .  365 

Old  Comrades.     Fernshawe ,         .  367 

Keflections  of  a  Eevolutionary  Poet.     Fernshawe         .         .  369 

An  Agnostic's  Answer,     Fernshawe 371 

The  Withered  Jester.     Fernshawe         .....  373 

Love  and  War.     Fcrnshaxoe  .......  376 

Such  is  Life.     Siveet  Girl  Graduate 377 

A  Foreboding.     Fernshaioe    .......  378 

Death.     Fernshawe        ........  379 

The  Storm.     Fernshawe         .......  380 

The  Cynic  of  the  Woods.     Fernshawe  .....  381 

James  L.  Michael,  New  South  Wales— 

I  Chose  not  111 — a  Quiet  Nook.     John  Cumberland      .         .  383 

There  are  Times  One  cannot  Sleep.     John  Cumberland         .  384 
Through   Pleasant   Paths,    through   Dainty    Ways.      John 

Cumberland    .........  386 

ThelittlelittleBirdpeepsontof  her  Nest.    John  Cumberland  387 

The  Moon  is  in  the  Sky,  Dear.     John  Cumberland       .         .  387 

J.  Sheridan  Moore,  New  South  Wales— 

The  Beauty  that  Blooms  in  Australia.     Australian  Paper  .  388 

(Miss)   Agnes   Neale   (Caroliue    Agues    Leaue),  South 
Australia— 

Good-night.     Adelaide  Paper 389 

I  did  not  Know  that  Spring  had  Come.     Adelaide  Paper    .  390 

God  Knows.     Adelaide  Paper       ......  391 

In  tlie  IMidnight.     Adelaide  Paper       .....  394 

They  Never  Come  Back.     Adelaide  Paj^er 396 

John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  West  Australia- 
Western  Australia.     Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas  .        .        .  410 

(Sir)  Henry  Parkes,  G.C.M.G.,  New  South  Wales  (1815)— 

My  Birthday.     Stolen  Moments 398 

Sonnet. — Who  would  not  be  a  Poet.     Stolen  Moments  ,  400 

Sonnet. — Escaped  from  Shipwreck.     Stolen  Moments  .         .  400 

Seventy.     The  Beauteous  Terrorist        .....  401 

The  Flag.     The  Beauteous  Terrorist      .....  402 

Bounding  o'er  the  Summer  Sea.     The  Beauteous  Terrorist  .  403 

liismarck.      The  Beauteous  Terrorist     .....  404 

The  Strong  Man.     2'he  Beauteous  Terrorist  ....  405 

To  Inez.     The  Beauteous  Terrorist 405 

John  Plummer,  New  South  Wales- 
Only  a  Flower.     Australian  Paper       •        .        «        .        .  406 


CONTENTS.  XV 

PAGE 

■\V.  N.   PkATT,  South  Australia- 
Rain.     Australian  Paper      ..«•••.     407 

Richardson  Rae,  New  Zealand — 

Failed.     New  Zealand  Paper 409 

CATIIEraNE  Richardson,  New  Zealand- 
Beautiful  Ferns.     Gabvielle,  aivd  Other  Poems      .        .        .     413 

RoBEiiT  Richardson,  New  South  "Wales- 
Annette.     Manuscript 414 

A  Hay-Cart  in  the  City.     Life  and  Work     ....     417 

J.  Steele  Robertson,  Victoria — 

Musk  Gully,  Dromana.     Melbourne  University  Review         ,     419 
J.  Howlett  Ross,  Victoria — 

Bourke  Street.     From  a  Balcony 420 

Spare  the  rigeons  .........     423 

Richard  Rowe  (Poter  PossunO,  New  South  \Vale>^— 

What  will  the  Next  News  Be?       ......     426 

Jack  Rugbv — 

Old  Archie's  Last  Camp  .......     428 

J.  Sadler,  South  Australia — 

The  Proclamation  Tree  . 431 

Robert  Sealy,  New  South  Wa  es— 

A  Cabman's  Philosophy.     Barton's  Poets  and  Prose  W7'iters 

of  New  South  Wales 434 

The  Publican's  Daughter.     Barton'' s  Poets  and  Prose  Writer 

of  New  South  Wales        .......     435 

To  W.  M.     Barton's  Poets  and  Pr<>se  Writers  of  New  South 

Wales 436 

Sedley — 

Silence.     Australian  Paper  .,,,,,.     437 

Patrick  Shanahan,  Victoria- 
Acacia  Creek.     Australian  Paper         ,        ,        ,        ,        .43 

William  Sharp— 

The  Last  Aboriginal.     Earth's  Voice       .....     442 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Singing  Shepherd  (Eleanor  Elizabeth  Montgomery), 
New  Zealand — 

To  One  in  England.     Songs  of  The  Sivfiing  Shc2}hefd    .         .  444 

Good-Night,  Good-Rest.     Songs  of  The  Singing  Shepherd    .  445 

Adieu.     Songs  of  The  Singing  Shepherd         ....  447 

Charles  Allan  Sherard,  Victoria— 

Angelique.     The  Australasiiin 448 

Her  Knight.     The  AustraUisian 453 

Finis  Coronat  Opus.     The  Avstrala.iian        ....  456 

Her  Mother's  Glass.     TIte  Australasian        ....  458 

Percy  F.  Sinnett,  Sonth  Australia  and  Victoria — 

The  Song  of  the  Wild  Storm-Waves.      Wattle  Blossoms  by 

'^FcrSe" 461 

Douglas  Brooke  Wheelton  Sladen,  Victoria  (1856)— 

Waterloo.     Frithjof  and  Ingehjorg        .....  465 

The  Man  with  a  Histoiy.     A  Poetry  of  Exiles,  Second  Series  468 

An  Old  Eomance.     In  Cormvall  and  Across  the  Sea    .         .  471 

Broken  Gods 471 

Drake  and  Ealegli.     Sydney  Echo 473 

Gobiu  Ag:ice.     Edward  the  Black  Prince      ....  475 
To  The  Fallen  Gum-Tree  on  Mount  Baw-Baw.     Australian 

Lyrics 478 

The  Squire's  Brother.     Australian  Lyrics  ....  480 

A.  C.  Smith,  Queensland— 

The  Waif.     Australian  Paper 489 

Walter  Smith  (Old  Saltbush),  New  South  Wales- 
Despair.     The  Death  of  Oswald 491 

R.  Spencer-Browne,  Queensland — 

A  Sea-GuU  in  Shore.     Manuscript 493 


James  Brunton  Stephens,  Queensland— 

Universally  Respected.     The  Australasian . 

A  Brisbane  Reverie.      Convict  Once 

To  a  Black  Gin.     Convict  Once 

Quart  Pot  Creek.     Convict  Once  . 

'J'he  Power  of  Science.     Convict  Once  . 

Once  More.     Convict  Once    .... 

Australian  Anthem.     Convict  Once 

The  Dominion  of  Australia.     Convict  Once  . 

Tlie  Boy  Crusader.     Convict  Once 

The  Angel  of  the  Doves.     Convict  Once 


494 
503 
507 
510 
513 
517 
519 
520 
522 
526 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

PAGE 

Gerard  H.  Supple,  Victoria— 

The  Dream  of  Damijier.     Melbourne  Review         ,        .        .     529 

Tasma,  Tasmania— 

A  Dirge.     The  Australasian 607 

Margaret  Thomas,  Victoria  — 

In  Momoriani :   Alice  Ricliman.     Mamtscript       .        .'.  541 

Aiiology  for  an  In  Moinoriam  Poem.     Manuscript        .         .  542 

Absent  Friends.     ]\[anuscript 543 

Sonnet :  Stay  thou  on  Foreign  Sliores.     Manuscript  .         .  544 

Sonnet  :  Idleness.     Manuscript 544 

Sonnet :  Grief.     Manuscript         ......  545 

Pictor  Ignotus.     Manuscript 545 

James  Thomas,  New  South  Wales  (1861)— 

To  a  Silver-Eye.     Manuscript 550 

May  o'  the  South.     Manuscript 551 

On  Revisiting  the  King's  School,  Parramatta.     Manuscript    553 

(Mrs.)  E.  T.  Thorrowgood,  Victoria — 

What  have  the  Years  Brought 554 

John  Owen  Tucker,  Victoria — 

lu  Memoriam,  Gustavus  Vaughan  Brooke.      The  Mnte,  a 

Poem  of  Victoria,  and  Ot.iicr  Poems         ....     5^5 
To  Sir  Willianr  Foster  Stawell.     The  Mate  .         .         .         .557 

Charles  Umbers,  New  Zealaiul— 

The  Fireman.     JVeiv  Zealand  Paper 559 

The  Marriage  Bells  of  Avaleigh.     iVfw  Zealand  Paper         .     560 
Gordon's  Death.     New  Zealand  Pap)er  ....     562 

(Miss)  Mary  Colborne  Veel,  Ncav  Zealand- 
Saturday  Night.     The   Weekly  Press,  Christ  Church,  New 

Zealand 563 

Garnet  Walch,  Tasmania  and  Victoria — 

A  Little  Tin  Plate.     A  Little  Tin  Plate 

Good  News.     A  Little  Tin  Plate  . 

A  Spray  of  Amaranth.     A  Little  Tin  Plate 

Drifting.     A  Little  Tin  Plate 

Brava,  Tasmania  !    A  Little  Tin  Plate 

Lines  Spoken  at  the  Memorial  Benefit  of 

Sent  by  Patchcft  Martin 
Sans  Souci.     A  Little  Tin  Plate    , 
A  Drug  in  the  Market.     A  Little  Tin  Plate 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Sakah  Welch,  South  Australia— 

The  Digger's  Grave.     Australian  Paper       ....     1:85 

William  Charles  Wentworth,  Norfolk  Island  and 
New  South  Wales. — 

Australasia.     Barton's  Poets  and  Prose  Writei's  of  New  South 

Wales 586 

Charles  Whitehead,  Victoria— 

The   Spanish   Marriage.     Charles   Whitehead,   a   Forgotten 

Genius.     (Mackenzie  Bell) 588 

W.  R.  Wills,  New  Zealand— 

The  Spirit  of  Love.  New  Zealand  Paper  ....  590 
For  Ever  a  Crown  of  Thorns.  New  Zealand  Paper  .  ,  591 
Apollo  and  M:irs3as.     New  Zealand  Paper  ....     594 

Frederick  Sydney  Wilson,  New  South  Wales- 
Waiting  for  the  Mail.     Austral ian  Paper    ....     595 
Two  Australian  Pictures.     Australian  Paper      .         .        .     597 

Thomas  Woolner,  RA.,  New  South  Wales — 

From  the  Introduction  to  My  Beautiful  Lady      .        .        .     600 


The  Poems  in  the  Appendix  are  given  Alphahetically  in  the 
geueral  Table  of  Contents. 


ADDENDA. 


William  J.  Steward,  M.H.R.,  New  Zealand — 

The  Dying  of  the  Day.     Carmina  Varia       ....     609 

Robert  Lowe  (Viscount  Sherbrooke)— 

Songs  of  the  Squatters  (No.  2).     Poems  of  a  Life         .        .    610 


TO  THE  READER. 


**  Another  Australian  anthology  ! "  the  critical  may 
say.  "  We  have  had  two  already,  and  from  the  same 
editor.     What  occasion  was  there  for  a  new  one  ?  " 

In  the  first  place,  "  Australian  Ballads  and  Rhymes  " 
and  "A  Century  of  Australian  Song"  were  practically 
one  book,  because  the  latter  was  simjjly  an  expansion  of 
the  former;  and  in  the  second  place,  they  were  selected 
upon  an  entirely  different  principle  to  this  volume. 
They  were  confined  to  poems  inspired  by  life  in 
Australia  and  New  Zealand,  and  owing  to  this  limita- 
tion were  forced  to  exclude  many  of  the  finest  poems 
colonists  have  written.  This  exclusion  was  pretty 
generally  deplored,  and  accordingly  the  present  volume 
was  projected  to  give  specimens  of  the  best  poems  pro- 
duced in  the  Antipodes,  irrespective  of  subject. 

This  volume  then  is  a  selection  of  poems  prodvAed  in 
Atistralasia,  though  not  necessarily  inspired  by  the  new 
conditions  of  Australasian  life.* 

To  make  this  collection  as  complete  as  possible,  the 
editor  sought  the  aid  of  the  Colonial  Press,  begging  of 
them  to  be  allowed  to  invite  contributions  through  their 
columns.     All   the   leading  papers   gave  generous  and 

*  There  are  one  or  two  exceptions  to  the  poems  having  been  pro- 
duced in  Australasia,  notably  Home's  "Orion,"  a  poem  of  such 
importance  that  the  rule  had  to  be  waived  in  its  favour. 


XX  TO  THE  READER. 

gracious  help,  but  one  minor  metropolitan  journal  com- 
plained that  Mr.  Sladen  had  undertaken  to  edit  a  book, 
and  then  asked  the  papers  to  do  his  work  for  him  while 
seeking  an  indirect  advertisement  for  his  own  poems. 
And  the  publishers  wei-e  warned,  in  perfect  good  faith, 
that  if  they  simply  collected  all  that  was  sent,  and 
published  it  in  a  bundle,  they  would  make  themselves 
the  laughing-stock  of  Australia,  it  being  suggested  instead 
that  a  local  man  should  be  selected  to  make  a  selection 
from  the  four  locally  best  known  poets  (i^ace  Massina  1), 
to  be  published  locally. 

This  would  of  course  have  been  perfectly  useless.  The 
chances  are  that  a  locally  published  book  would  not  have 
reached  the  British  public  at  all,  and  the  object  of  such 
an  anthology  is  not  so  much  to  lay  before  the  public 
one's  favourite  pieces  in  books  with  which  they  are 
familiar,  as  it  is  to  gather  hitherto  unnoticed  flowers. 

As  a  result  of  appealing  to  the  Press  for  help,  the 
editor  has  made  the  acquaintance  of  two  hundred  volumes 
and  pamphlets  of  Antipodean  poetry  (vide  Materials  for 
a  Bibliography  of  Australian  Poetry  in  "A -Century  of 
Australian  Song,"  just  issued  by  Walter  Scott),  besides 
poems  unpublished,  or  only  published  fugitively. 

The  existence  of  many  of  these  books  was  unknown 
even  to  Mr.  E.  A.  Petherick,  who  has  made  Australian 
Bibliography  the  study  of  his  life.  So  it  is  obvious 
that  the  selection  would  have  been  most  incomplete 
without  this  appeal  to  the  Press. 

The  editor's  desire  to  select  the  best  pieces  without 
regard  to  their  being  produced  by  well-known  authors, 
was  indorsed  practically  by  the  English  reviewers  of 
"  Australian  Ballads  and  Rhymes,"  who,  writing  without 
predilections,  drew  a  large  proportion  of  their  illustra- 
tions fi"om  the  less  known  writers. 


TO  THE  READER.  xxi 

This,  of  course,  proved  not  a  particle  in  detraction  of 
Gordon,  Kendall,  and  other  leading  poets,  but  merely 
that  there  are  in  Australia  far  more  writers  capable  of 
producing  good  work  than  had  been  assumed. 

And  this  is  what  one  would  naturally  suppose.  For 
Australia  has  one  of  those  delightful  climates  conducive 
to  rest  in  the  open  air. 

The  middle  of  the  day  is  so  hot  that  it  is  really  more 
healthful  to  lounge  about  than  to  take  stronger  exercise. 
Sea  and  sky  are  one  unbroken  sapphire,  shown  up  in 
magnificent  contrast  by  the  dark  olive  green  of  the 
native  forests  and  the  glittering  opal  of  the  sun-smitten 
hills.  The  atmosphere  is  dry  champagne.  The  con- 
ditions of  existence  ai^e  easy,  the  means  of  subsistence 
plentiful.  Laughter  and  relaxation  are  constant,  and 
the  curse  of  the  careless  South,  miasma,  has  never 
blasted  this  pleasant  land  Only  the  strong  sun  that 
makes  everything  so  beautiful  must  be  treated  with  due 
respect,  or  he  will  avenge  his  disregarded  power  with 
one  of  his  deadly  strokes. 

But  while  revelling  in  the  goodness  of  the  land,  the 
thoughtful  man  cannot  escape  the  reflection  that  he  is 
out  of  the  world — the  world  whose  history  and  monu- 
ments all  the  centuries  have  been  building  up.  For  the 
world  has  grown  up  without  Australia  and  almost  un- 
affected by  America.  So  that  the  American,  and  still 
more  the  Australian,  has  to  make  his  world  for  himself. 
He  who  dwells  in  our  great  island  continent,  like  the 
rich  man  in  the  parable,  is  severed  by  a  great  gulf — in 
our  instance,  literally,  of  sea  thousands  of  miles  wide — 
from  all  the  glories  painted  by  tradition.  He  is  like 
Sindbad  the  Sailor,  in  the  goi'ge  of  the  gems.  And  as 
the  world  is  lit  up  by  the  past,  he  who  is  in  a  land  that 
has  no  past,  feels  that  he  is,  as  it  were,  groping  for  the 


xxii  TO  THE  READER. 

light  that  shall  be  some  day.  Robinson  Crusoe,  cast 
upon  Juan  Fernandez,  may  in  his  valiant,  philosophical, 
Anglo-Saxon  fashion  revel  in  novelties  and  thankfully 
adapt  himself  to  the  genial  circumstances ;  but,  for  all 
that,  he  will  occasionally  feel  a  craving  for  men  and 
cities. 

Again,  if  resting  in  the  Eden  climate  and  primaeval 
solitudes  of  Australia  begets  reflection,  galloping  through 
the  glittering  air  with  the  sensation  of  illimitable  space 
must  make  the  pulses  beat  higher  in  a  man  worthy  of  the 
name :  and  one  sees  the  fruit  of  both  in  Australian 
Poetry.  No  one  has  pourtrayed  the  excitement  of 
Australian  life  more  inimitably  than  Gordon.  While 
the  reflections  of  the  native  Australian  who  has  never 
seen,  and  will  never  be  vouchsafed  to  see,  the  lands 
beyond  the  deep  sea,  that  all  nations  call  the  world — 
and  of  the  Englishman,  who  has  turned  his  back  for  ever 
upon  the  cradle  and  heirlooms  of  his  race,  have  found 
voices  in  the  exquisitely  musical  and  picturesque  Kendall, 
and  poets  not  one  or  two,  who,  like  Stephens,  bred  "  at 
home,"  have  identified  themselves  with  Australia. 

It  is  not  proposed  to  contest  here  whether  priority 
should  be  given  to  the  magnificent  "  dash  "  of  Gordon, 
or  to  the  unforgettable  grace  of  Kendall,  or  to  the  real 
greatness  of  Domett.  The  editor  has  written  his  estimate 
of  the  merits  of  the  various  singers  so  recently  in  "  A 
Century  of  Australian  Poets  "  that  anything  he  could 
say  here,  would  be  mere  recapitulation.  To  introduce 
an  entirely  fi-esh  element  into  this  book  he  asked  his 
friend,  Patchett  Martin,  a  representative  Australian 
litterateur,  whose  literary  training  has  been  entirely 
Australian,  to  write  a  sketch  of  literary  life  in  Australia, 
and  to  prepare  the  more  important  biographical  head- 


TO  THE  READER.  xxiii 

iBgs,*  to  take  the  place  of  the  personal  data  given  in  the 
introductions  to  the  previous  books.  But  it  must  be 
understood  that  he  is  in  nowise  responsible  for  the 
opinions  hazarded  in  his  friend's  essay  or  headings, 
while  the  responsibility  of  making  the  selection  of  poems 
is  entirely  his.  It  may  perhaps  be  objected  that  the 
selections  are  too  copious.  It  would  be  so  if  the  volumes 
from  which  the  selections  are  taken  were  readily  acces- 
sible in  England.  But  very  few  being  procurable  "  at 
home,"  and  the  poems  being  wholly  unknown  to  the 
general  public,  it  seemed  desirable  that  authors  should  be 
quoted  at  sufficient  length  for  a  judgment  to  be  formed 
of  them.  In  brief,  it  was  not  a  question  of  settling  which 
were  a  poet's  masterpieces  (as  it  would  be,  e.ij.,  if  one  were 
selecting  from  Shelley),  but  of  inti-oducing  him — not 
culling  the  choicest  ilowers  from  a  garden,  but  of  gather- 
ing such  fine  specimens  as  one  could  of  a  new  wild-flower 
one  had  come  across  in  the  forest. 

And  though,  of  course,  there  were  a  few  well  enough 
known  for  this  not  to  apply  to  them,  they  had  to  be 
quoted  m  extenso  to  observe  proportion. 

But,  though  the  editor  does  not  purpose  to  write  a 
fresh  essay  upon  the  Australian  poets,  he  must  neces- 
sarily make  some  additions  to  his  former  remarks  and 
explanations.  In  the  first  place,  he  must  say  a  few 
words  apropos  of  Gordon  himself,  who  is  only  repre- 
sented by  three  poems,  because  these  are  the  only  three 
poems  the  editor  could  obtain  not  belonging  to  Messrs. 
Massina,  who  have  secured  the  copyright  of  most  of 
Gordon's  poems,  and  refused  permission  to  select  from 
them.  The  reader  will  also  find  one  poem  once  gene- 
rally attributed  to  Gordon,  "A  Voice  from  the  Bush," 

*  Of  Australians,  the  New  Zealand  biographies  are  supplied  by 
the  editor. 


xxiv  TO  THE  READER. 

which,  not  being  bj  Gordon  at  all,  does  not  belong  to  tlie 
copyright.  The  real  author  is  well  known,  but  refuses 
to  have  his  name  attached  to  the  poem,  though  he  cor- 
rected the  proof  of  it  for  "  Australian  Ballads  and 
Rhymes."  Of  course  the  editor's  name  being  there  printed 
with  it  was  merely  a  wanton  blunder  perpetrated  by  a 
marplot  of  a  printer,  who,  after  the  revised  proof  had 
been  sent  perfectly  correct,  at  his  own  discretion  copied 
the  name  from  the  piece  above,  in  despair  at  the  poem's 
coming  back,  finally  corrected,  with  no  name  attached. 
The  poet's  name  has  been  spelt  Lindsay,  as  formerly, 
instead  of  Lindsey  (the  spelling  adopted  by  his  father  in 
the  register  at  Cheltenham  College),  because  Gordon's 
old  friends  seemed  to  wish  it  very  much,  and  the  editor 
having  pointed  out  that  there  was  a  discrepancy  of  spell- 
ing, thought  it  of  no  great  further  import. 

The  editor  has  been  anxious  to  give  specimens  from 
the  poems  of  three  writers  who  have  enjoyed  a  consider- 
able reputation  in  England,  and  were  long  resident  in 
the  Colonies,  Derwent  Coleridge,  Rowe  (Peter  Possum), 
and  Charles  Whitehead,  but  could  find  no  suitable  poem 
by  the  first  named.  J.  Hewlett  Ross,  himself  a  contri- 
butor, and  one  of  Australia's  most  distinguished  printers, 
found  for  him  the  poem  quoted  of  Peter  Possum's  ;  and 
the  "  Spanish  Tragedy  "  of  poor  Whitehead,  who  died  in 
Melbourne,  he  learned  to  be  of  Australian  production 
fi'om  Mr.  H.  T.  Mackenzie  Bell's  fascinating  "  Charles 
Whitehead,  a  Forgotten  Genius,"  an  admirable  study 
and  rehabilitation  of  the  author  of  Richard  Savage,  the 
man  chosen  by  the  publishers  in  preference  to  Dickens 
to  write  the  book  now  immortal  as  the  "  Pickwick 
Papers." 

With  Whitehead  ought  to  bo  mentioned  John  Y/. 
Graves,  for  fifty  years  a  colonist  in  Tasmania,  not  much 


TO  THE  READER.  xxv 

known  m  literary  circles,  bnt  author  of  a  song  that  has 
gone  the  round  of  the  world,  "  D'ye  ken  John  Peel  1  " 

In  deference  to  the  criticism  of  Mr.  Petherick  in  the 
Aca/Jemy,  the  poem  printed  under  the  name  of  Barring- 
ton  the  Convict,  in  "  A  Century  of  Australian  Song,"  has 
been  omitted  from  this  volume. 

Through  the  kindness  of  Katherine  Tynan,  the  poetess, 
the  editor  has  (unfortunately  too  late  for  the  selection, 
which  went  to  press  long  before  this  preface)  been  enabled 
to  read  Farrell's  "  How  he  Died,  and  other  Poems."  He 
is  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of  saying  something  in  reply 
to  the  gibe  with  which  one  critic  contemptuously  dismissed 
this  volume.  "  Byron-and- Water  —  Henry-Kendall - 
and-Water — Lindsay-Gordon-and- Water — and  some  of 
it  very  dirty  Water  !  "  The  taunt  he  thinks  quite  un- 
deserved, though  he  sees  how  Farrell  laid  himself  open 
to  it.  For  he  imitates  these  three  poets  to  the  verge  of 
parodying  them,  and  several  of  his  poems  show  evidence 
of  having  been  dashed  off  squib-fashion  for  the  columns 
of  a  funny  newspaper,  while  some  of  the  subjects  are, 
to  say  the  least,  unsavoury. 

But  the  critic,  as  even  critics  sometimes  will,  omitted 
to  notice  Farrell's  real  promise  and  sterling  merits.  For 
the  volume  shows  undeniable  spirit,  and  (though  occa- 
sionally disfigured  by  cheap  sentiment)  deep  poetical 
feeling,  together  with  considerable  swing  and  unusually 
clever  rhyming.  There  are  some  passages  which  touch 
one  like  that  most  pathetic  of  tragedies,  "  The  Story  of  a 
Short  Life,"  and  the  man  who  can  imitate  Kendall  with 
such  power  must  be  able  to  w^rite  yet  more  powerfully 
when  striking  out  for  himself. 

The  editor  has  also,  unfortunately  only  in  time  to 
slip  a  poem  into  the  Appendix,  received  William  J. 
Steward's  (Justin  Aubrey's)  "Carmina  Yaria."     Steward 


XX vi  TO  THE  READER. 

is  a  poet  who  has  some  echoes  of  the  deep  voice  of 
humanity,  he  is  full  of  sympathy  and  a  sweet  singer — 
worthy  to  sing  of  the  land  sung  by  Alfred  Domett  and 
Thomas  Bracken,  Readers  have  to  deplore  the  loss 
of  two  capital  poems,  full  of  spirit  and  beauty,  sent  by 
Vincent  Pyke,  but  mislaid  while  the  editor  was  changing 
houses,  and  the  absence  from  the  selection  of  John  Black- 
man,  a  poet  whose  name  is  known  all  over  New  Zealand, 
and  who  contributed  some  fine  poems  which  arrived 
after  the  book  had  gone  to  press. 

The  mention  of  New  Zealand  writers  recalls  the  stir 
that  New  Zealand  poetry  has  made  among  English 
readers.  That  such  an  earthly  Paradise,  an  Eden  with- 
out a  serpent,  a  land  combining  the  Alpine  glories  of 
Switzerland  and  the  forest  luxuriance  of  Brazil,  a  land 
where  the  settlers  have  acquired  an  heroic  element  by  a 
fight  for  existence  against  a  native  race  superior  even  to 
the  red  heroes  of  Mayne  Reid — in  the  arts  of  war,  in 
courage,  and  in  physique — in  a  land  that  is  another 
Britain,  severed  from  its  Continent  by  a  fiercer  channel 
a  hundred  times  as  wide,  one  might  reasonably  have 
expected  strong  poetic  representation  ;  but  when  one 
reflects  that  New  Zealand  is  in  extent  and  population  a 
single  colony  of  Australasia,  she  has  a  right  to  be  proud 
of  being  the  poetic  mother  of  such  a  body  of  writers  as 
Alfred  Domett,  the  author  of  one  of  the  great  poems  of 
a  century  in  which  Shelley  and  Keats,  Byron  and  Scott, 
"Wordsworth  and  Tennyson  have  all  flourished  ;  and  the 
younger  singers,  Thomas  Bracken,  typical  colonist  as 
well  as  manful  poet ;  Justin  Aubrey ;  John  Liddell 
Kelly,  who  seems  to  have  inherited  the  mantle  of 
Domett  in  his  brilliant  handling  of  rhythm  and  metre, 
his  eye  for  the  picturesque  in  depicting  the  Maoris  and 
Maoriland,  and  his  truly  poetic  gift  of  observation ;  E. 


TO  THE  READER.  xxvii 

S.  Hay,  with  his  Shelleian  gift  of  delicate  and  pathetic 
lyrics;  "Austral,"  whose  two  poems  in  "Australian 
Ballads  and  Rhymes "  have  been  quoted  and  i-equoted 
in  England  ;  Mary  Colborne  Veel,  with  her  witty,  pithy, 
and  musical  verse;  "The  Singing  Shepherd,"  at  present 
a  writer  of  very  uneven  merit,  but  authoress  of  three 
veritable  gems,  "To  One  in  England,"  "Good  night, 
good  rest,"  and  "Adieu;"  Alexander  Bathgate,  a 
singularly  finished  writer;  and  W.  R.  Wills,  whose 
three  volumes  are  replete  with  noble  thoughts  and 
wealth  of  expression. 

To  the  editor.  New  Zealand  has  always  seemed  created 
for  a  land  of  song.  And  in  New  Zealand,  were  it  not 
for  the  proud  patriotism  that  all,  who  have  ever  lived  in 
her,  feel  for  that  future  capital  of  empire,  Melbourne, 
it  has  been  his  dream  to  settle — luxuriating  in  the  soft 
climate,  the  delicious  scenery,  the  forests  with  tropical 
luxuriance  but  without  the  venomous  and  miasmatic 
terrors  of  the  tropics — ever  since  he  read  the  exquisite 
word-pictures  of  New  Zealand  which  Domett  wrote  in 
his  great  poem  from  the  text — 

Well,  but  what  if  there  gleamed  in  an  age  cold  as  this, 

The  divinest  of  poets'  ideal  of  bliss  ? 

Yea,  an  Eden  could  lurk  in  this  empire  of  ours  !  " 

The  editor  has,  it  will  be  noticed,  as  in  previous  selec- 
tions, omitted  the  "  Mr."  in  all  cases,  to  escape  the  in- 
vidium  of  deciding  what  poets  were  entitled  to  immunity 
from  "  this  opprobrious  badge  of  unimportance,"  which 
no  Australian  would  ever  think  of  prefixing  to  the  names 
of  Gordon  or  Kendall. 

To  pass  on,  contributors  must  not  take  it  as  an  in- 
civility that  their  letters  have  not  been  answered ;  even 
if  the  editor's  honorarium  had  allowed  (at  sixpence  per 


xxviii  TO  THE  READER. 

letter),  he  had  not  the  leisure  to  answer  several  hundred 
letters,  most  of  them  lengthy;  and  it  was  mentioned  in 
the  announcement  of  the  book  that  no  payment  could  be 
made  for  contributions,  or  contributions  returned. 

Every  poem  sent  that  was  legible  has  been  read,  and 
no  poem  of  sufficient  merit  to  have  a  chance  of  being 
selected  was  left  out,  without  two  or  three  careful  re- 
perusals  :  and  selections  have  been  drawn  from  as  many 
authors  as  possible.  There  are  still  a  few  missing  like 
Mary  Hannay  Foott,  Rolf  Bolderwood  (Tom  Brown), 
and  Robert  Ross  Haverfield,  whose  poems  would  have 
been  among  the  very  best  in  the  volume.  Of  the  last  we 
have  a  fragment  which  we  believe  he  wrote  in  con- 
junction with  "  Harry "  Creswick,  but  could  lay  hands 
on  nothing  else. 

"  The  Jackass  laughs  in  the  gnm-tree — Why? 
Because  he  sees  in  the  eastern  slcy 
The  sunbeams  struggling  into  life, 
To  waken  men  to  care  and  strife  : 
And  he  knows,  full  well  as  they  rise  again, 
A  thousand  crimes  will  be  done  by  men. 

"  And  he  laughs  again  at  the  set  of  sun, 
To  think  of  the  risks  the  fools  have  run, 
For  he  says  to  himself,  'They  have  dearly  bought 
The  things  that  are  given  to  me  for  nought.' 
And  loudly  he  laughs — so  he  may — 'My  word  ;' 
For  the  Jackass  indeed  is  a  sapient  bird." 

Mary  Hannay  Foott  has  written  a  charming  volume 
of  verse,  and  a  charming  volume  might  also  be  made  of 
Rolf  Bolderwood's.  Unfoi^tunately  their  poems  were 
unprocurable  in  England. 

The  editor  has  stated  above  his  reasons  for  not  attempt- 
ing a  fresh  estimate  of  the  writings  of  the  Australasian 
poets.     But  for  this  he  would  like  to  have  offered  his 


TO  THE  READER.  xxix 

"homage  to  R.  H.  Home's  great  *'  Orion "  and  "  Pro- 
metheus," which  from  their  subjects  could  not  be  treated 
in  "  Australian  Ballads  and  Rhymes,"  and  he  may  here 
state  that  he  would  certainly  have  quoted  from  "  Convict 
Once,"  which,  for  its  power,  its  pathos,  its  picturesque- 
ness,  its  biilliant  and  rhythmical  handling  of  an  ambitious 
metre,  and  its  beauty  of  language  and  illustration  stands 
at  the  head  of  all  the  longer  poems  written  in  Australia. 
But  Brunton  Stephens,  in  writing  to  answer  the  editor  by 
what  poems  he  would  like  to  be  represented  in  "Aus- 
tralian Ballads  and  Rhymes,"  expressly  stipulated  that 
no  poem  should  be  quoted  except  in  its  entirety.  It  is 
much  to  be  regretted,  for  "  Convict  Once,"  above  all  his 
other  poems,  shows  the  poet's  greatness  as  a  literary 
artist.     His  critical  faculty  is  consummate. 

The  publishers  and  the  editor  have  to  tender  their 
best  thanks  to  contributors,  and  to  the  editors  of  the 
great  journals  of  Austi'alia  and  New  Zealand,  who  with 
one  accord  did  their  best  to  forwai'd  the  volume  by 
publishing  the  information  for  intending  contributors. 
Also  to  Mr.  Raymond  (manager  of  George  Robertson 
&  Co.,  at  Melbourne),  to  Mr.  Enipson  (manager  of 
Griffith,  Farran,  &  Co.,  Sydney),  Mr.  David  R.  Hay,  Mr. 
Eaton  of  South  Yarra,  Mr.  Herbert  Tinker,  Mr.  Glee- 
son  White,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  W.  E.  Cavendish,  Mrs.  E.  A. 
Lauder,  Mx\  H.  T.  Mackenzie  Bell,  the  poetess  Kathe- 
rine  Tynan,  and  the  following  contributors  who  have 
given  their  help  as  well  as  their  contributions  :  George 
Gordon  M'Crae,  Philip  J.  Holdsworth,  Patchett  Martin, 
Francis  W.  L.  Adams,  J.  Hewlett  Ross,  Robert  Richa)-d- 
son,  and  Alexander  Bathgate. 

The  editor  is  above  all  indebted — for  they  allowed  him 
to  borrow  books,  carte  blanche,  from  two  of  the  finest  Aus- 
tralasian libraries  in  the  world — to  Messrs.  O'Halloran 


XXX  TO  THE  READER. 

and  Boos^,  librarian  and  sub-librarian  of  the  Royal 
Colonial  Institute,  and  Mr.  E.  A.  Petherick  of  the 
Colonial  Booksellers'  Agency,  who  knows  more  of  Aus- 
tralian writers  than  any  one  in  England, 

In  conclusion,  he  would  say  that  he  is  conscious,  before 
the  book  is  printed,  of  the  promiscuous  abuse  that  will  be 
poured  upon  it  by  the  lower  class  of  Australian  papers, 
which  are  nothing  if  they  are  not  "  aboriginal ;  "  but  he 
hopes  that  those  Colonists  who  take  a  real  interest  in 
their  literature  will  take  it  for  what  it  is — a  genuine 
attempt  on  the  part  of  one  who  has  made  Australasian 
poetry  his  study,  and  is  familiar  with  the  works  of  more 
than  two  hundred  antipodean  poets,  to  lay  before  the 
British  public  specimens  of  the  best  verse  that  has  been 
written  in  Australia  irrespective  of  subject,  and  without 
respect  of  persons. 

D.  B.  W.  S. 


CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

(By  Arthur  Patchett  Martin.) 


Douglas  Sladen,  of  whom  personally  it  would  be  un- 
becoming in  me  to  write,  has  courteously  invited  me  to 
take  part  in  this  volume  with  "  a  preliminary  essay  on  the 
Australian  poets  themselves,"  apart  from  their  mere  verse 
writing.  The  English  literary  public,  he  thinks,  would 
like  to  know  something  of  this  strange  little  band  of 
colonists  who,  instead  of  stooping  to  pick  up  nuggets,  or 
bending  to  shear  "  the  golden  fleece,"  chose  to  scribble 
verse,  some  of  which  it  would  seem  is  on  the  point  of 
finding  a  wider  appreciation  in  the  Mother-country.  I 
could  not  see  my  way  to  refuse  so  generous  a  solicitation 
to  unburden  my  mind  on  a  personal  and  familiar  theme ; 
but  I  am  not  unaware  of  tlie  delicacy  and  even  difficulty 
of  my  task.  Colonial  poets,  like  other  people  of  sensi- 
bility, regard  the  photographer,  even  if  skilful,  as  a  social 
pest.  What  then  will  be  their  feelings  if  they  perceive 
a  humble  member  of  their  own  craft  clumsily  using  an 
apparatus,  the  lens  of  which,  as  well  as  the  camera,  is 
"obscure."  Let  me  further  explain  at  the  outset  that  I 
am  in  no  wise  responsible  for  the  selection  made  by  the 
editor  in  this,  or  in  preceding  "Anthologies,"  further 
than  by  giving  a  ready  assent  to  the  inclusion  of  certain 
published  poems  of  my  own,  and  by  specially  bringing 
under  his  notice  Garnet  Walch's  "Memorial  Lines  on 
Marcus  Clarke."  the  Hon.  "William  Forster's  "  Sonnets  on 
the  Crimean  War,"  and  the  real  name  of  the  author  of 
the  graceful  Sonnets  ad  Limipfam. 

I  do  not  think  I  can  better  explain  what  I  believe  has 


xxxii       CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

always  been  the  prevailing  opinion  in  the  colonies  with 
regard  to  colonial  poets,  than  by  a  phrase  I  learned  from 
a  worthy  Roman  Catholic  priest  to  whom  I  had  occasion 
to  complain  of  a  protege  he  had  induced  us  to  accept  as  a 
domestic  servant.  She  had  many  excellent  qualities,  as  I 
admitted,  but  also  a  fixed  opinion  that  the  soup  tureen 
was  intended  for  coals.  When  she  at  length  proceeded 
to  boil  potatoes  in  the  fish-kettle,  I  thought  it  as  well  to 
interview  the  good  cleric  as  to  her  mental  state. 

I  relieved  my  own  mind  by  dwelling  on  the  awkward- 
ness of  these  domestic  misconceptions,  adding  "she  writes 
poetr}^,  too."  Then  his  eye  lit  up — "  Oh  ! "  said  he, 
"  poetry  is  it — away  with  her  at  once.  We  have  a  saying 
in  Ireland  when  Ave  wish  to  convey  that  a  person  is 
harmless,  but  not  quite  'all  there'  in  the  upper  story — 
a  poor  poet  of  a  fellow  !  " 

I  am  sure  that  this  is  the  light  in  which  the  Harpurs, 
Kendalls,  and  Gordons,  while  living,  invariably  appeared 
to  their  more  bustling,  more  matter-of-fact,  and  therefore 
more  prosperous  fellow-colonists. 

ISTot  that  I  think  any  of  them  had  anything  to  com- 
plain of  on  the  score  of  personal  unkindness,  or  public 
contempt.  They  were  not  only  tolerated,  but  in  some 
cases  even  sheltered  and  treated  kindly,  particularly  by 
the  public  men  of  ISfew  South  Wales;  but  always,  I 
imagine,  from  the  feeling  that  they  were  not  quite  able  to 
look  after  themselves,  not  quite  all  there;  in  short,  as 
poor  harmless  fellows  whose  disease  was  neither  dangerous 
nor  contagious. 

My  own  reminiscences  are  almost  strictly  confined  to 
Victoria;  of  the  poets  of  New  South  Wales  I  know 
nothing  personally,  save  of  Kendall,  who  made  his 
home  for  a  while  in  Melbourne.  Even  of  Kendall  and 
Gordon  my  recollections  are  dim  and  shadowy,  for  the 
one  was  dead,  and  the  other  had  migrated  back  to  his 
native  woods  before  I  began  to  read,  or  at  least  write, 
colonial  verse.  Some  of  my  earliest  reminiscences  were 
revived  by  the  death  of  R.  II.  Ilorne,  a  few  years  back. 
I    jotted    them    down    at    the     time,    and    they     duly 


CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS,     xxxiii 

appeared  in  the  Academy  of  March  29,  1884,  under  the 
heading  "  'Orion'  Home  in  Australia."  Perhaps  I  can- 
not do  better  than  quote  the  opening  sentences,  as  they 
throw  a  side-light  on  the  career  of  one  of  our  best  Aus- 
tralian poets,  Henry  Kendall. 

"  What  old  Melbourne  resident  does  not  remember  the 
second-hand  bookseller's  shop  on  the  brow  of  Bourke 
Street  Hill,  near  to  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  where 
some  fifteen  to  twenty  years  ago,  and  down  to  a  later 
period,  the  colonial  Quaritch — one  Henry  Tolnian  Dwight 
— held  literary  sway?  Thither,  on  hot  summer  after- 
noons, Avould  flock  many  men  of  local  note — lawyers, 
doctors,  divines,  journalists — a  motley  crew,  but  united 
in  the  bonds  of  bookdom.  It  was  no  light  privilege  to  be 
admitted  into  the  sacred  circle,  for  'Dwight's'  possessed, 
in  the  eyes  of  those  of  the  younger  generation  who  cared 
not  for  the  politics  or  commerce  of  a  prosperous  pro- 
vince, much  of  the  charm  of  a  London  literary  coterie. 
Among  those  who  frequented  the  low-roofed,  book-stuffed 
recesses  of  this  shop  was  a  little  odd-looking  old  gentleman 
with  '  cork-screw '  curls,  who  came  on  periodical  visits 
to  the  metropolis  from  the  dark  forests  of  the  Blue 
Mountains,  wliere  he  reigned  in  high  oflicial  grandeur 
as  Warden.  Every  one  at  '  Dwight's,'  from  the  great 
functionary  himself  to  the  brilliant  leader  of  the  bar,* 
whose  real  aim  in  life  was  to  collect  rare  editions  of 
Montaigne,  would  greet  with  warmth  the  visitor.  For  this 
strange-looking  little  old  man  was  Richard  Henry  (Hengist) 
Home,  or  as  we  invariably  called  him,  '  Orion  '  Home. 

"  I  say  '  we '  perhaps  presumptuously,  for  my  youthful 
obscurity  placed  me  quite  on  the  outer  rim  of  this  ex- 
clusive literary  '  set,'  who,  however,  tolerated  my  frequent 
presence,  perhaps  because  like  other  great  men  they 
preferred  a  boyish  listener  to  none.  .  .  .  The  death  of 
this  same  R.  H.  Home  at  Margate  has  brought  back 
vividly  the  mingled  feelings  of  pride  and  pleasure  with 

*  Sir  Archibald  INIichie,  the  greatest  lecturer  of  Australia,  genuine 
wit,  and  a  man  of  rare  literary  ability  and  culture  ;  though  the 
*'  Montaignes  "  must  be  taken  in  a  general  sense, 

C 


xxxiv      CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

■which  I  took  the  old  man's  hand  some  two  or  three  years 
before  he  left  for  England,  I  have  had  the  honour  since 
to  meet  poets  whom  I  must  critically  rank  as  '  fuller 
minstrels '  than  '  Orion '  Home,  but  no  personal  intro- 
duction, even  to  a  Tennyson  or  a  Browning — deeply  as  I 
revere  their  genius — could  recall  the  emotion  with  which 
I  then  regarded  one  who  has  now  passed  almost  silently 
away." 

"  We  hear  much,"  I  continued,  '•  in  the  colonies  now- 
a-days  of  'Australian  literature,'  and  faint  echoes  (this 
was  previous  to  our  Editor's  advent  as  an  Australian 
anthologist)  of  this  self-assertion  are  to  be  caught  in 
England.  But  no  account  of  this  new  literary  develop- 
ment is  complete  without  a  recognition  of  the  labours  of 
'  Orion '  Home,  who  dwelt  and  wrote  in  Victoria  from 
1852  to  1869,  During  those  years  Home,  who  seemed 
to  us  to  have  brought  in  person  to  the  new  land  the 
literary  glories  and  traditions  of  the  Mother- country  (for 
was  he  not  the  personal  friend  of  Charles  Dickens,  and 
the  Brownings,  and  had  not  Poe  proclaimed  his  farthing 
Epic  to  be  on  a  par  with  Milton's  ■?),  was  the  acknowledged 
arbiter  of  authorship  throughout  Australia.  At  his  sole 
hat  the  Sydney  poet,  Henry  Kendall's,  '  Death  in  the 
Bush,'  and  the  '  Glen  of  Arrawatta,'  were  awarded  the 
coveted  prize  as  '  the  best  poems  produced  in  the 
colonies.' " 

Alfred  Domett,  I  may  remark,  should  bear  much  the 
same  relation  to  'New  Zealand  literature — if  it  had  a 
distinct  existence — that  I  here  claimed  for  Home  in 
Australia.  But  although,  as  Mr.  Froude  predicts,  the 
"Britain  of  South"  is  doubtless  destined  to  have  a 
brilliant  literary  as  well  as  political  future,  the  time  has 
not  yet  come.  Melbourne  and  Sydney  between  them 
divide  the  literature  of  Australasia. 

Eeverting  to  those  old  Melbourne  days,  I  can  recall  the 
curiosity  some  of  us  felt  to  see  and  know  Kendall,  "  the 
Sydney  poet,"  Avhen  he  decided  to  come  over  and  make 
his  home  among  us.  Mr.  Alexander  Sutherland,  who 
has  of  late  years  been  laudably  busy  in   collecting  the 


CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS.      xxxv 

memorials  of  the  generation  of  Australian  litterateurs  who 
have  already  run  their  brief  course,  gives  some  painful 
details  of  poor  Kendall's  life  in  Melbourne.  I  suppose 
in  the  interests  of  the  public  it  was  necessary  to  tell  this 
tale  of  want  and  weakness,  and  Mr.  Sutherland  means 
well  and  writes  in  a  sympathetic  spirit ;  but  I  certainly 
liave  no  wish  to  dwell  upon  such  things.  Henry  Kendall, 
apart  from  his  genius  for  writing  lyrical  verse,  was  what 
the  Scotch  call  a  "  feckless "  person.  In  Sir  Henry 
Parkes,  in  whom  the  vigorous  party  politician  only  hides, 
it  cannot  kill,  the  genuine  poet,  he  had  a  friend  as  well  as 
a  patron ;  but  it  availed  little.  Kendall  was  always,  as 
Mr.  Sutherland  says,  in  difficulties.  The  truth  is  he  had 
no  very  marketable  commodity,  especially  for  a  new  com- 
munity eager  to  gain  a  commercial  footing  in  the  world's 
marts  ;  and  he  had  great  weaknesses  of  character. 

Journalism  is  held,  at  least  in  Australia,  to  be  the 
business  partner  of  Literature ;  but  Kendall  had  not  a 
single  qualilication  of  the  journalist — neither  training, 
capacity,  nor  knowledge.  For  all  that  he  wrote  exquisite 
lyrics.  But  those  Avho,  bewailing  the  fate  of  this  colonial 
lOdgar  Allan  Poe,  are  apt  at  the  same  time  to  denounce 
the  whole  community  for  spurning  his  genius,  are  in  my 
judgment  manifestly  unfair  and  foolish.  Kendall  was 
never  without  kind  and  valuable  friends ;  and  he  died  as 
Inspector  of  Forests,  an  office  specially  created  for  him 
by  Sir  Henry  Parkes,  then  as  now  Prime  Minister  of 
!New  South  Wales. 

I  remember  Henry  Kendall  very  well,  as  he  appeared 
at  "  Dwight's  "  when  I  first  beheld  him.  He  Avas  then,  I 
think,  in  some  inferior  government  appointment  which 
had  been  provided  for  him ;  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the 
Kegistrar-General's  office.  He  was  a  small,  dark,  fragile, 
poetical-looking  man  of  thirty-five  or  forty  in  appearance, 
and  so  far  as  I  remember  he  had  no  conversational  ability 
at  all.  Garnet  "Walch  once  told  me  that  when  he  was  on 
the  staff  of  the  Sydney  Punch,  Kendall  was  his  colleague ; 
and  they  used  to  meet  at  certain  times  and  read  their 
effusions  to  one  another  preparatory  to  submitting  them 


xxxvi      CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

to  the  public  in  print.  The  great  Mr.  Dalley  was  a  sort 
of  outside  amateur  whom  they  greatly  admired  as  a  con- 
tributor, but  could  not  quite  regard  as  a  hard-working, 
needy  brother-professional,  compelled  to  convert  his  jokes 
into  coinage  of  the  realm.  Kendall  used  at  these  sijm- 
2J0sia  to  read  his  verses,  which,  when  they  had  merit, 
were  decidedly  not  comic ;  for  he  had  no  sense  of  humour 
whatever.  So  affected  would  he  become  that  he  would 
burst  into  tears  at  reading  his  own  lines,  a  degree  of  sensi- 
bility which  his  more  robust  comrades  with  the  vis  comica 
thought  a  decided  weakness. 

Henry  Kendall's  fame  had  preceded  him  to  IMelbourne, 
and  he  was  accordingly  welcomed  Avarmly  by  the  literary 
coterie  of  the  Yorick  Club  and  in  other  quarters.  He 
made  the  personal  acquaintance  of  such  men  as  Marcus 
Clarke,  A.  L.  Gordon,  and  G.  G.  M'Crae  —  a  genuine 
poet  and  true  artist.  If  one  turns  over  the  old 
numbers  of  the  Colonial  Monthly  Magazine,  one  finds 
Kendall  a  frequent  poetical  contributor ;  he  also  figures 
in  the  poet's  corner  of  the  chief  Melbourne  newspapers 
of  that  day.  His  life  in  Melbourne  was  singularly 
unhappy ;  he  could  not  withstand  its  temptations,  nor 
endure  its  daily  wear  and  tear.  He  had  brought  his 
young  wife  with  him,  and  it  was  in  Melbourne  that  he 
lost  his  child  Araluen.  "When  he  left  his  native  New 
South  Wales,  the  poor  poet  looked  on  Melbourne,  "  Queen 
city  of  the  golden  South,"  as  his  future  home,  where  he 
would  achieve  fame,  and  what  was  more,  peace  of  mind, 
and  bread  for  his  wife  and  babe.  It  is  now  nearly  twenty 
years  ago  since,  full  of  those  hopes,  he  first  saw  its  broad 
streets,  and  walked  along  them,  with  his  slender  packet 
of  dainty  verse  that  was  to  win  the  hearts  of  men  and 
women.  Mr.  Sutherland,  writing  in  1882 — ^just  after 
Kendall's  untimely  death — says  of  this  "  packet,"  known 
as  "Leaves  from  an  Australian  Forest":  "Fifteen  hun- 
dred copies  were  printed — the  price  being  five  shillings 
each.  They  were  published  thirteen  years  ago,  and  there 
are  still  several  hundred  copies  for  sale  in  the  city  at 
sixpence  each." 


COXCERNIXG  AUSTRALIAN  POETS.    xxxvH 

"  Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd's  trade.' 

As  ^Milton  was  referring  to  poetical  rather  than  pastoral 
pursuits,  his  exclamation  seems  to  have  a  profound  signifi- 
cance in  reference  to  the  career  of  poor  Henry  Kendall 
in  Australia.  Tlie  frail  little  child  Araluen  was  the  first 
to  succumb,  dying  in  a  wretched  cottage  in  a  Melbourne 
suburb.  It  only  remained  for  the  poor  despairing  poet 
and  his  youthful  wife  to  bury  the  baby,  leave  Melbourne, 
and  go  back  to  their  native  place,  broken  and  defeated. 
His  lines  to  the  partner  of  his  sorrows  are  very  touching 
on  this  sad  death  and  melancholy  migration. 

"  Take  this  rose  and  very  gently  place  it  on  the  tender,  deep 
Mosses,  where  our  little  darling  Araluen,  lies  asleep. 
Put  the  blossom  close  to  baby — kneel  with  me,  my  love,  and  pray  ; 
We  must  leave  the  bird  we've  buried — say  good-bye  to  her  to-day. 
In  the  shadow  of  our  trouble,  we  must  go  to  other  lands  ; 
And  the  flowers  we  have  fostered  will  be  left  to  other  hands. 
Other  eyes  will  watch  them  growing — other  feet  will  softly  tread 
Where  two  hearts  are  nearly  breaking ;  where  so  many  tears  are 

shed. 
Bitter  is  the  world  we  live  in  :  life  and  love  are  mixed  with  pain — • 
We  will  never  see  these  daisies,  never  water  them  again."' 

So  the  sweet  pathetic  strain  flows  on,  and  it  is  not 
possible  to  read  it — realising,  as  I  do,  that  it  is  no  mere 
fancy  sketch,  but  a  transcript  of  his  actual  life  and  fruit- 
less struggle  in  iMelbourne — and  not  be  deeply  moved. 
Still  I  cannot  withdraw  what  I  have  said,  that  the  com- 
munity as  a  Avhole  cannot  be  censured  because  one  of 
Aveak  and  sensitive  nature,  gifted  with  an  unsaleable  gift, 
perished  b)''  the  way-side. 

The  time  is  not  far  off  when  Kendall's  poems  will  be  in 
request,  and  those  "  sixpenny  copies  "  be  at  a  fancj''  price, 
and  his  name  as  a  sweet  singer  in  the  mouths  of  men. 
INIeanwliile,  after  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  in  the 
Waverley  Cemetery,  near  Sydney,  within  souiul  of  the 
"  wide  Pacific,"  which  was  in  life  his  delight,  and  beside 
which  he  desired  to  be  buried. 

Of  Gordon  I  have  elsewhere  written,  having  to  the 
best  of  my  belief  introduced  that  remarkable  Australian 


xxxviii      CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

poet  to  the  notice  of  the  English  literary  public  some  four 
years  ago.  I  liave  only  to  express  my  regret  that  the 
demand  "svhicli  sprung  up  has  been  met  simply  by  a 
reprint  of  the  old  editions,  full  of  typographical  errors, 
with  poems  by  other  hands,  and  a  set  of  verses  taken  from 
an  English  magazine  without  acknowledgment.  To  this 
farrago  is  appended  a  futile  prefatory  note  by  a  Mr, 
Birnie. 

Gordon  is  a  melancholy  instance  of  a  poet  whose  verses, 
though  recognised  by  the  "judicious  few"  as  excellent  in 
his  lifetime,  yet  did  not  then  sell  sufficiently  to  be  of 
any  help  in  the  fierce  struggle  for  existence.  After  his 
melancholy  death,  their  local  fame  quickly  spread,  and 
finally  reached  England,  with  the  result  that  the  profits 
are  absorbed  by  those  who  secured  the  copyright  on  their 
own  terms.  The  verses  by  Gordon,  taken  without  ac- 
knowledgment from  Temj>Ie  Bar,  where  I  originally  pub- 
lished them,  are  by  Mr.  Eentley's  consent  and  my  own 
to  be  found  in  this  volume. 

The  Editor  has  very  properly  included  in  this  collection 
some  verses  by  the  well-known  Australian  novelist,  Marcus 
Clarke,  who,  all  things  considered,  is  the  best  example  of 
the  purely  literary  character  that  has  ever  lived  south  of 
the  line.  Clarke  was  a  brilliant  prose  writer,  some  of  his 
lighter  sketches  being  unsurpassed  in  their  way,  for  a  sort 
of  epigrammatic  force  that  is  French  rather  than  English. 
Poetry  was  with  him  only  a  casual  relaxation,  but  so  good 
was  his  critical  faculty,  that  it  was  well  nigh  impossible 
for  him  to  Avrite  badly,  whether  in  verse  or  prose.  In 
any  general  sketch  of  Australian  literature  it  would  be 
necessary  to  describe  his  connection  with  various  local 
periodicals,  of  which  he  was  the  literary  mainspring. 

Clarke  was  essentially  an  artist,  I  remember  when 
he  turned  his  attention  to  what  used  to  be  almost 
the  only  paying  branch  of  literary  composition,  except 
journalism,  in  INIelbourne — the  writing  of  the  burlesque 
opening  of  the  Christmas  pantomime  ;  he  did  not  succeed 
in  pleasing  the  pit  and  gallery  as  well  as  others  who  had 
made  the  writing  of  this  kind  of  extravaganza  a  business 


CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS,     xxxix 

for  years — but  Marcus  Clarke's  work  was  of  a  distinctly 
higher  literary  order  than  theirs.  The  songs  he  wrote 
for  his  "fairy  prince"  to  sing,  were  graceful  little  lyrics, 
and  the  "  local  hits "  he  introduced  at  the  expense  of 
colonial  politicians  had  wit  and  point ;  rather  too  much 
perhaps,  for  one  Melbourne  M.P.  made  a  vulgar  personal 
assault  on  him  in  Parliament,  demanding  his  instant 
dismissal  from  the  public  service.  Clarke  was  then  Sub- 
Librarian  of  the  Melbourne  Public  Library,  a  position  he 
continued  to  hold  till  the  time  of  his  death. 

Garnet  AValch  has  perhaps  greater  claims  as  a  colonial 
poet  than  his  friend  Marcus  Clarke,  and  the  "  memorial 
verses  "  written  on  the  occasion  of  the  latter's  death  have 
the  rare  merit  of  genuine  feeling.  It  would,  however,  be 
invidious  of  me  to  attempt  to  criticise  one  with  whom 
for  years  I  was  intimately  associated.  The  selections 
given  speak  for  themselves.  But  I  would  like  to  pay  a 
tribute  to  my  old  comrade's  kind,  generous  disposition. 
When  he  was  engaged  by  an  influential  INIelbourne  pub- 
lishing firm  (George  Robertson  &  Co.)  to  bring  out  an 
expensive  book  on  the  colony,  entitled  "  Victoria  in  1880," 
he  was  the  first  to  ask  the  rival  rhymesters  of  the  place 
to  contribute  to  it,  and  he  gave  every  one  more  prominence 
than  himself. 

He  has  in  life,  as  in  his  writings,  a  perennial  fund  of 
good  humour  and  honest  hearty  fun  ;  his  talents  are  great 
and  various  ;  he  is  well  educated  (for  which  he  must 
thank  our  dear  old  grandmother,  Germany),  and  in  fine 
he  is  like  Horatio — 

"  A  man  that  ftirtune's  buffets  and  rewards 
Hath  ta'en  with  equal  thanks." 

"When  the  inevitable  end  comes  the  good  people  of 
Melbourne  will  be  loud  in  Garnet  Walch's  praises,  and 
the  book  collectors  will,  as  in  the  case  of  Kendall,  be  busy 
buying  up  his  scattered  writings. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  if  they  began  now. 

There  is  only  one  other  Australian  poet  of  more  than 
mere  local  name  who  demands  a  worth  I  allude  of  course  to 
James  Brunton  Stephens  of  Queensland,  in  many  respects 


xl  CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

the  most  gifted  of  all  the  writers  of  verse  in  Australia. 
As  a  Victorian  I  know  nothing  personally  of  my  Queens- 
land confrere,  for  we  lived  as  far  asunder  as  St.  Petersburg 
is  from  London.  But  I  once  had  the  pleasure  as  editor 
of  the  Melbourne  Review  to  receive  from  him  a  very 
valuable  poem  entitled  "  Mute  Discourse " — which  I 
promptly  published,  and  the  MS.  of  which  I  have  kept 
to  this  day  as  a  literary  relic  of  Australia. 

We  boastful  Melbournians  often  used  to  Avonder  what 
a  man  like  Brunton  Stephens  could  find  in  a  "  provincial" 
existence  like  that  of  the  ISTorthern  colony.  Why  didn't 
he  come  South,  we  said,  and  live  in  a  civilised  country, 
and  in  the  literary  metropolis  of  the  great  Island-Continent. 
He  may  have  remembered  the  fate  of  Kendall,  or  perhaps 
he  was  happy  enough  where  he  was  in  Queensland.  In 
spirit  he  was  often  with  us,  for  never  a  week  passed 
without  some  poem  of  his,  or  some  critical  recognition 
of  his  poetic  gifts  appearing  in  the  columns  of  the  great 
Melbourne  weeklies,  which  are  newspaper  and  magazine 
in  one. 

Owing  to  the  zeal  of  the  Editor,  selections  from  all 
these  writers,  and  from  many  beside,  are  now  placed 
before  the  English  reader  for  the  first  time.  It  is 
not  my  province  to  speak  of  the  value  of  such  an 
anthology,  rather  would  I  urge,  in  mining  parlance,  that 
each  one  should  "  wash  the  dirt  in  his  own  dish,"  and 
see  how  many  "  ounces  to  the  ton  "  he  can  secure.  But 
as  an  aging,  if  not  old  Australian  Avriter,  some  reflec- 
tions cross  my  mind  when  I  notice  how  warmly  these 
collections  of  colonial  verse  are  now  being  received  in 
England. 

It  was  not  always  so  in  our  own  land.  Turning  over 
an  old  Colonial  Monthly — a  magazine  started  to  promote 
local  literature — I  find  the  work  of  the  most  widely  re- 
cognised of  Australian  poets  thus  summarily  dismissed  : — 

"  Altogether  it  is  one  of  the  oddest  literary  curiosities 
issued  from  the  colonial  printing-press,  and  deserves  en- 
couragement at  the  hands  of  those  whose  tastes  incline 
to  •horsey'  sport." 


CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS.  xli 

Could  anything  be  more  contemptuovis  1  Yet  this  was 
the  magazine  founded  by  "the  literary  clique,"  and  in 
which  Marcus  Clarke,  Kendall,  and  other  confreres  of 
the  victim  of  this  cruel  snub,  were  the  chief  scribes. 
Call  you  that  backing  of  your  friends  % 

The  Culonial  MvntJdij  was  the  magazine,  too,  in  which 
appeared  frequent  critical  notices  of  local  writers  from 
the  judicious  pen  of  the  "  literary -banker  "  of  Melbourne, 
Mr.  H.  G.  Turner,  who,  it  is  needless  to  say,  did  not 
write  the  criticism  quoted.  The  fact  is,  Australia  had 
then  learned  to  rely  on  her  own  judgment  in  literary  or 
other  matters.  When  Henry  Kendall  felt  himself  un- 
appreciated by  the  colonial  critics,  and  therefore  unread 
by  the  colonial  public,  he  sent  his  bundle  of  MS.  to  the 
editor  of  the  AthencBum,  Avho,  to  the  poet's  exceeding  joy, 
singled  out  three  pieces  for  special  praise  and  publication. 

We  now  seem  to  have  rushed  to  the  other  extreme, 
and  I  can  only  blush  at  such  a  criticism  (?)  as  this  in  the 
Melbourne  Review  of  a  comparatively  recent  date  : — 

"No  English  poet  has  appeared  since  iS6o  who  is 
Kendall's  superior.  Rossetti  and  Swinburne  and  Arnold 
and  Morris  are  indulgently  treated,  if  in  deference  to  the 
enthusiasm  of  tlieir  admirers  we  allow  them  an  equal 
measure  of  poetic  feeling  with  Henry  Kendall." 

As  if  this  were  not  enough,  the  writer,  who  is  quite 
sane  and  a  Scotch  schoolmaster  to  boot,  of  high  local 
academic  standing,  adds  that  "neither  JMilton  or  Words- 
worth has  anything  superior  in  the  way  of  sonnet- writing." 

I  scanned  the  next  sentence  to  see  in  what  particular 
the  inferiority  of  Shakespeare  to  Henry  Kendall  was 
insisted  on.  All  this,  of  course,  is  worse  than  futile,  it  is 
silly,  and  really  does  the  fair  fame  of  Kendall  and  the 
future  of  Australian  literature  no  service. 

Similarly  to  judge  from  certain  indications  the  new 
tone  of  Englishmen  is  friendly  rather  than  critical ;  for 
we  colonials  have  produced  nothing  M'orthy  of  great 
laudation.  This  excessive  unselfish  praise  from  English- 
men and  silly  self-praise  of  Australians  Avill,  however, 
cease  soon  enough,  and  things  will  find  their  true  level. 


xlii         CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  point  to  be  estaUislied  is  that  a  man  or  woman  living 
under  the  new  conditions  of  colonial  life,  freely  and 
healthily,  in  the  bright  beneficent  sunlight  of  Australia, 
might,  if  so  gifted,  produce  a  fine  poem,  or  a  great  picture, 
or  a  stirring  drama,  and  the  fact  of  its  origin  being 
"Colonial,"  should  tell  neither  in  its  favour  nor  to  its  hurt. 

The  Editor  in  his  personal  request  which  has  led  to 
this  rambling  essay,  was  good  enough  to  say  "  please  give 
your  own  experiences — what  led  you,  trained  and  educated 
entirely  in  Australia,  to  write  verses  ? " 

So  far  I  have  cunningly  avoided  falling  into  the  trap. 
Nor  do  I  mean  to  offer  any  Apologia  for  my  metrical  or 
other  fullies.  But  as  I  have  branched  off  to  this  vital 
question  of  criticism — English  and  local — on  Australian 
literary  work,  I  would  like  to  be  for  a  minute  "  frankly 
autobiographical."  As  Marcus  Clarke  used  to  say  of  him- 
self, "  I  went  through  the  mill,"  that  is,  I  obtruded  my 
rascally  verses  and  got  duly  whipped.  It  is  astonishing, 
looking  back  on  those  early  days,  how  fond  our  journal- 
istic masters  were  of  the  cat-o'-nine-tails.  Here  is  an 
instance  of  how  it  was  administered  : — 

"  We  have  received  a  copy  of  a  voh;me  of  poems  by 
a  Mr.  Gordon.  We  can  only  say  that  it  reflects  great 
credit  upon  the  printer,  the  binder,  and  the  paper-maker." 

After  "  a  poor  poet  of  a  fellow  "  had  been  setting  his 
soul's  emotions  to  music  for  a  year  or  two  to  produce  a 
thin  volume  of  verse,  it  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  dis- 
couraging to  be  thus  dealt  with.  Let  me  hasten  to  admit 
that  I  received  from  some  quarters  more  than  my  share  of 
generous  praise ;  for  I  began  to  publish  at  the  time  when 
the  feeling  of  mere  "colonial  dependency"  was  dying  in 
Victoria,  and  that  of  a  distinct  nationality  was  astir. 

But  looking  back  over  a  number  of  years,  I  can  still 
recall  the  glow  of  pleasure  and  pride  with  which  I,  a 
mere  colonial  literary  tyro,  received  a  certain  letter 
from  a  writer  whose  fame  is  now  world-wide,  E.  L. 
Stevenson. 

I  had  published  a  little  Christmas  story,  padding  out 
its  scantiness  by  some'  random  rhymes."  In  acknow- 
edging   a   copy  of   this   precious   production,   the  best 


CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS.        xliii 

essayist  and  story-teller  of  our  day  "wrote,  "  Your  story 
seems  to  me  very  agreeable  and  pretty ;  and  I  may 
mention  ■with  regard  to  the  piece  of  verses  called  '  Such 
is  Life,'  that  I  am  not  the  only  one  on  this  side  of  the 
Football  aforesaid  to  think  it  a  good  and  bright  piece 
of  work,  and  recognise  a  link  of  sympathy  ■with  the  poets 
■who  play  in  '  hostelries  at  euchre.' " 

I  had  been  savagely  smitten  by  some  local  critic  for 
that  very  "piece  of  verses,"  and  this  letter  -was  to  me  as 
balm  in  Gilead.  I  had  appealed  to  Eome,  and  no^w  ■who 
should  dare  to  "  boycott "  my  muse.  My  feeling  can 
only  be  compared  to  that  of  a  (then)  young  Victorian 
friend  ■whose  literary  bent  took  the  form  of  reading  essays 
at  a  Debating  Society  patronised  by  some  older  men 
■whose  delight  it  ■was  to  extinguish  his  poor  farthing  rush- 
light ■whenever  he  lit  it.  So  he  copied  out  a  translation 
of  a  discourse  by  Goethe  and  read  it  to  them.  "  Rubbish," 
— said  they — "puerile,"aswith  one  voice.  "When  they  had 
made  an  end  of  speaking  he  quietly  arose  and  said,  fixing 
his  eye  on  one  terrible  old  greybeard  ■who  Avrote  literary 
criticisms  in  the  local  press : — "  Gentlemen,  I  have 
listened  to  your  opinions  to-night  Avith  much  pleasure. 
You  ■will  also  be  pleased  when  you  learn  that  the  essay  you 
have  been  criticising  is  not  mine,  but  the  poet  Goethe's." 

So  the  letter  of  "R.  L.  S."  was  a  joy  to  me.  Now, 
however,  the  pendulum  is  swinging  to  the  other  side. 
Once  it  was  thought  no  good  could  come  out  of  the 
colonies,  now  nothing  but  good.  The  tone  of  English 
criticism  on  everything  colonial  seems  just  now  exclu- 
sively flattering,  and  we  are  in  danger  of  being  spoiled, 
strutting  about  in  honours  too  easily  won. 

Our  colonial  members  of  parliament,  excellent  fellows 
some  of  them  in  their  way,  come  "  home  "  and  are  forth- 
with translated  into  "  statesmen,"  and  wear  from  that 
out  a  Baconian  brow.  Now,  owing  to  Douglas  Sladen's 
introduction,  the  poets  are  to  have  a  turn.  But  lest  this 
genial  kindliness  be  mistaken  for  stern  criticism,  I  would 
fain  give  another  illustration  of  English  opinion,  on 
matters  colonial,  even  though  it  sadly  wounds  my  amour 
propre. 


xliv        CONCERNING  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Among  tlie  odd  efforts  of  my  idle  fancy  in  the  Aus- 
tralian Bush,  near  Fernshawe,  was  the  composition  of  a 
set  of  verses  on  a  Laughing  Jackass,  the  curious  bird 
which  so  fascinated  Mr.  Froude.  I  fantastically  styled 
these  verses  "The  Cynic  of  the  Woods,"  and  in  the 
middle  of  my  discourse  addressed  him  bluntly  as  "  Jack- 
ass." The  matter  is  plain  enough  to  a  colonial  reader, 
but  a  volume  containing  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  an 
English  friend  who  I  had  judged  to  be  of  a  sombre 
turn  of  mind,  a  statistician  and  political  economist,  one 
who  like  Cardinal  IManning  had  given  his  early  prime 
to  the  study  of  Ricardo.  He  expressed  himself  as 
delighted  with  my  ballad  of  the  Jackass ;  and  wrote  to 
say  that  it  was  admirable.  Nothing,  he  said,  had  so 
much  amused  him  as  this  idea  of  the  Jackass  laughing 
at  the  poet ;  but  he  thought  I  had  strained  a  point  in 
putting  the  animal  up  in  the  boughs,  as  he  had  never  heard 
even  of  a  wild  ass  sufficiently  agile  to  climb  a  gum-tree. 

The  moral,  perhaps,  is  that  Australian  literature  will 
only  be  in  a  fair  way  of  development  when  there  is  side 
by  side  with  it  an  Australian  school  of  criticism.  For, 
after  all,  one  shouldbe  judged  by  one's  own  people.  This 
is  the  "  Home-rule  "  side  of  the  question  ;  there  is  also  the 
"Imperial"  view,  which  is  based  on  our  greatest  common 
heritage — language.  Douglas  Sladen  told  us  in  verse 
that  we  Australians  are  only  a  new  variety  of  the  original 
English  stock.  This  is  perfectly  true.  Literature,  too, 
has  ceased  to  be  tribal,  and  the  only  barrier  that  prevents 
a  supreme  poet  like  Tennyson  from  speaking  to  the  whole 
world  at  once,  is  that  of  language.  It  is  also  the  link 
that  binds  America  and  Australia,  whether  they  will  or 
no,  to  the  Mother-country.  jSTor  in  our  petty  endeavour 
to  establish  an  "Australian  literature,"  should  we  forget 
that  we  share  in  the  greatest  heritage  of  England.  We, 
too,  if  our  voices  are  clear  enough,  can  speak  from  our 
remote  weird  Bush,  and  our  new  flourishing  cities,  to 
three  Continents — only  there  are  so  many  talking  at  the 
same  time,  that  we  do  not  always  get  a  good  hearing. 


AUSTEALIAN  POETS. 


FEANCIS  W.  L.  ADAMS. 

[A  well-known  Australian  journalist,  author  of  Poems  (Elliott 
Stock),  Leicester,  an  A  utobiography  (George  Redway),  Australian 
Essays  (Griffith,  Farran  &  Co.),  and  Poetical  Works  (Muir  and 
Morcons,  Brisbane),  son  of  the  dif^tinguished  authoress,  Mrs. 
Leith-Adams  (now  Mrs.  R.  S.  De  Courcy  Laffan  of  Stratford- 
on-Avon).  When  Mr.  Adams  wrote  from  Queensland  he  was 
engaged  upon  a  volume  of  AustraUan  Tales,  a  novel  {The 
JJruces),  and  a  work  on  Modern  English  Poets.] 

LOVE'S  LIGHT  AND  TUNE. 

T  WILL  not  light  the  candle  yet  and  draw  the  blinds, 
But  lean  my  flushed  face  and  the  brow  that  aches 
Out  into  the  cool  air,  where  these  tired  eyes  look, 
(Below  is  heard  the  murmuring  murmuring  brook, 
And  in   the  early  twilight  trees  and  brakes,  all  of  the 

small  birds  are  set 
Crooning,  and  piping  tunes  to  suit  their  minds,) — 
Look  in  the  sweet  soft  mingling  of  the  sky  and  the  sea, 
Where  is  no  tune  to  change  unceasingly, 
It  is  so  long  since  any  tune  hath  come  to  me. 

Nay,  close  the  wuidow  up,  and  draw  the  blinds  that  cry, 
And  light  the  candle,  and  with  smiling  face 

A 


2  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Tell  thyself  of  this  tune  God  gives,  this  tune 

That  shineth  in  thy  soul  palely,  as  yonder  moon 

Shineth  there  by  the  hills  with  unfelt  pace, 

Till  the  darkness  deepens  and,  more 

And  more,  her  glory  fills  the  courts  of  the  sky, 

And  all  the  sea  and  the  earth,  and  is  enough 

To  gladden  every  heart  vyith  joy  thereof ; 

0  God,  I  thank  thee  for  this  tune  that  tells  of  Love! 


AGNOSTA. 

Ah  God,  my  peerless  love,  to  have  known  a  woman  like 

you 
Would  (so  I  have  often  dreamed)  have  set  my  soul  on 

fire, 
Sent  the  bright  blood  bubbling,  bubbling  and  rushing 

through 
Veins  that  were  swollen  with  life,  with  life  and  with 

love's  desire  ! 

Ah  !  but  I  never  met  you  !  never,  save  in  my  dreams, 
And  there   the  clasp   of  your   arms,  the   kiss   of   your 

sorceress  lips, 
Mocked  me — maddened  me — struck   me  awake  in  the 

ghastly  gleams 
Of  the  earth,  moon,  sun,  and  stars,  whirled  deep  in  a  wild 

eclipse. 

Patience,  patience,  poor  fool !     Fold  thy  fluttering  icings, 
Fold  them  for  ever  still  beside  a  reposeful  breast, 
And  let  thine  ear  but  hear  the  siveetest  song  that  life  sings  : 
"  After  the  day  the  night,  after  labour  rest." 


FRANCIS  W.  L.  ADAMS. 


WORLD  WOUNDED. 

She  shall  never  know 

I  loved  her  so, 

Or  she  would  mourn  for  me. 

I'd  have  her  say, 

When  I  am  gone  away  : 
"  We  were  happy,  I  and  he  ! 

So  I  for  ever 

Shall  be  to  her 

A  sweet  bright  memory. 

And  she  shall  know 

I  loved  her  so — 
And  she  too  shall  love  me  ! 


DANCE  SONG. 

How  could  I,  sweet,  have  sung  another  song  ? 

To  you  there  was  but  one  for  me  to  sing, 
Eut  one,  and,  ah  !  you  know  it  all  so  long, 
That  now  I  fear  it  seems  an  idle  thing. 
With  tireless  feet,  Avith  tireless  feet, 
Dance  on,  dance  on  !     I  love  you,  sweet. 

How  shall  I  whisper,  dear,  another  word  ? 

Do  I  not  hold  you,  breathing  breast  to  breast  1 
My  heart  has  nought  to  say  yours  has  not  heard, 
Of  all  Love's  speeches  silence  is  the  best. 
I  will  not  fear,  I  will  not  fear, 
Dance,  dance  on  1     I  love  you,  dear. 


A  USTRA  LI  AN  POE  TS. 
ALPHA  CRUCIS. 

[This  writer  desires  the  incognito  maintaineJ.] 

IN  THE  UPLANDS. 

Morning. 

The  corn-lands  wake  with  rustling  quiver, 
Whilst  o'er  the  lowlands  far  away, 

With  opal  flush,  the  steel-blue  river 
Flings  flashing  back  the  blaze  of  day. 

The  mountain-tops  are  clothed  with  light, 
Upbursting  in  a  sunny  glow — 

Whilst,  scattering,  fade  the  mists  of  night 
From  glen  and  valley  far  below. 

And  with  the  briglitening  of  the  dawn 
The  soul  to  its  Creator  thrills. 

And  worships,  with  the  virgin  morn, 
Amid  the  splendours  of  the  hills — • 

For  here,  through  nature's  wakening  calm, 
Breathes  jubilantly  prayer  and  praise. 

Like  echoes  of  the  angel  psalm 
Which  ushered  in  its  primal  days. 

When  God  and  Nature  ruled  alone. 

And  Seraphs'  wings  made  glad  the  skies, 

Descending  from  around  His  throne. 
To  brighten  earth's  new  paradise ! 

Ere  through  Time's  sunny  universe 
The  frown  of  fiend-like  fate  was  seen, 

And  all  unknowing  sin's  strange  curse. 
His  wide  creation  lived  serene ; 


I 


ALPHA   CRUCIS.  5 

Through  days  which  brought  hut  fuller  bliss, 
Through  nights  which  brought  but  deeper  calm, 

And  dawn  which  woke  but  with  the  kiss 
Of  light  and  Seraphs'  morning  psalm. 

Yea,  heaven  and  earth,  and  man  and  time. 
Seemed  one  with  God  in  those  blest  hours, 

And  moving  on  to  more  sublime 
And  loftier  range  of  larger  powers  ! 

And  through  those  long,  calm,  golden  years 
Man's  soul  gained  power  with  its  ages, 

And  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
And  learned  to  read  the  mystic  pages, 

Which  ample  nature  spreads  afar, 
Throughout  Creation's  widest  bound, 

From  highest,  past  the  zenith  star. 
To  lowest  nadir  stars  profound. 

And  'midst  this  day-dawn,  bathed  with  dew 
And  virgin  freshliness,  lo  !  it  seems 

True  ! — that  these  whispers  may  be  true, 
And  something  more  than  poet's  dreams  ! 

For  in  the  sympathy  we  feel 

"With  God,  in  nature — is  the  key 
To  half-guessed  secrets,  which  conceal 

His  purpose,  and  man's  destiny. 

This  life  is  not  our  earliest  birth. 

Nor  highest — since  Creation's  dawn — 

And  yet  begins  again  on  earth. 
In  ignorant  infancy  new-born. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

With  scarce  a  memory  of  the  old 
Existences,  if  lived  ere  this — 

Save  dreams  of  some  past  age  of  gold, 
And  faith  in  some  dim  future  bliss  ! 

Some  sunset  of  supremest  splendour — 
Some  starlight  mystery  of  night — 

And  lo  !  awakes  some  subtle,  tender, 
Ineffable  dream  of  old  delight ! 

Sudden  as  lightning — and  more  fleeting, 
Scarce  seen,  scarce  felt,  ere  fled  afar — 

Yet  surely  token  of  a  greeting 
Unto  our  spirit  from  some  star, 

Wherein  our  life  was  earlier  kindled — 
Till  in  fate's  circle,  downward  hurled, 

To  lessen  life  awhile — it  dwindled 
To  mortal — in  this  lower  world. 

A  larger  life  with  larger  joys, 

Perchance  means  also  larger  pains  ! 

For  nature  ever  thus  alloys. 

With  greater  loss,  her  greater  gains. 

Whatever  goodness,  strength,  or  power 
Lives  in  the  present — lo  !  behold, 

It  was  not  born  within  the  hour. 
But  comes  inherited  of  old. 

Even  the  genius  sent  on  earth 
Once  in  the  ages,  now  and  then. 

From  God,  but  proves  how  high  a  birth 
Is  granted  unto  chosen  men  ! 


ALPHA  CRUCIS. 

And  man's  true  measure  is  the  height 
The  highest  rise  to — for  in  each 

Is  born  the  germ  of  mental  might, 
To  bring  all  knowledge  in  his  reach. 

The  noblest  words  can  never  tell 
Our  spirit  what  the  heavenly  strains 

Of  music,  in  their  loftiest  swell, 
Unto  the  raptured  soul  explains. 

For  language  but  expresses  thought ; 

Whilst  unto  harmony  is  given, 
To  echo  sacred  echoes  caught 

And  syllable  the  psalms  of  Heaven. 

And  greatest  poem  !  grandest  voice 
Of  music  !  never  yet  were  blent 

Perfect  in  one — to  bid  rejoice, 
Exalted  souls,  with  deep  content 

Of  highest,  most  exalted  art. 

Which  wedded  man's  immortal  verse 

With  the  immortal  thrilling  heart 
Of  song,  which  fills  the  universe, 

With  beauty  in  all  varied  guise, 
And  sings  the  seasons  of  the  years, 

And  all  the  hymnings  of  the  skies. 
And  all  the  music  of  the  spheres  ! 

Yet  ne'er  is  lost  one  noble  word. 
Nor  ever  dies  one  noble  thought ; 

For  ever  in  heaven  they  are  heard, 

Although  they  pass  from  earth  as  naught. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  so  perchance  the  heavenly  sound 
Of  harmony,  that  thrills  all  earth, 

Is  but  a  noble  thought  re-found, 
Re-baptized  with  its  higher  birth, 

To  echo  down  through  Mammon's  din, 
And  silvery  pierce  Earth's  deafened  ears  ; 

To  Avake  the  higher  soul  within. 
With  all  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

Some  glow  of  life,  of  more  than  earth. 
Thrills  through  us  with  a  sudden  gleam, 

Like  lightning  memory  of  past  birth, 
Baptized  in  some  far  heavenly  stream. 

An  instant  only — whilst  the  soul 
Grows  larger  than  its  mortal  frame, 

And  sees  divinely,  with  the  whole 
Of  God's  vast  universe,  its  claim 

To  loftier  life,  in  larger  spheres. 

Throughout  a  mightier  range  of  time, 

Whose  gladdening  days  fill  golden  years, 
Tlirough  ages  growing  more  sublime  ; 

Where  every  effort  tends  to  good, 
Where  every  pathway  reverent  trod, 

'Midst  men  and  angels  brotherhood, 
Leads  upward  to  the  throne  of  God  ! 

And  all  the  ills  of  lower  life, 

Like  flies  in  amber,  leave  no  taint 

On  memory — and  past  pain  and  strife, 
Like  discords — sounding  far  and  faint. 


ALPHA  CRUCIS. 

By  distance  softened,  mellowing  glow, 
Half  musical,  less  harsh  than  sad, 

And  in  eternity's  soft  glow 

Of  light  the  soul  lives  calmly  glad. 


Noon. 


The  secret  of  the  Poet's  soul, 

The  essence  of  its  gift,  is  this. 
Strong  sympathy — with  nature's  whole 

Creation — and  with  all  that  is  ! 

AVho  says  great  Pan  is  dead  1  when  all 
The  myriad  chants  which  nature  sings, 

From  whispering  leaves  to  wild  birds'  call 
Some  echo  of  his  worship  brings  1 

The  gods  of  old  have  never  died ! 

They  lived  since  ever  time  began, 
By  many  a  new  name  deified, 

Through  changing  creeds,  by  changing  man. 

Amidst  the  vine-leaves  overhead, 

I  hear  great  Dionysus  sing — 
As  erst  he  sang,  ere  art  was  fled. 

And  life  was  in  its  young  world  spring. 

And  love  laughs  whispering  in  the  breeze, 

Lo  !  Aphrodite  yet  is  fair  ! 
And  sudden  'midst  the  swaying  trees 

I  see  her  golden,  gleaming  hair  ! 


lo  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  glowing  crocus',  round  her  feet, 
Of  warm,  soft  whiteness,  seem  to  rise. 

As  though  they  emulous  strove  to  meet, 
And  golden  clasp  their  pearly  prize  ! 

She  passes  in  her  goddess  grace, 

Like  living  light,  across  the  flowers  ! 

And  like  a  gleam  of  heaven,  her  face 
Smiles  love  between  the  garden  bowers  ! 

Unutterable  sweetness  fills 

The  summer's  soft  voluptuous  breath, 
And  all  my  inmost  being  thrills 

With  life  which  seems  too  great  for  death. 

Sweet  orange-blossoms  steep  the  air. 

In  languorous  softness — and  their  flowers 

Like  scarlets  shine  out  whitely  fair 

Amidst  tlieir  glossy  dark-leaved  bowers. 

Is  Nature  dumb,  or  are  we  deaf  1 
Do  her  gods  answer  when  we  call  1 

Speaks  she  to  us  in  whispering  leaf, 
Or  murmurs  of  the  waterfall  1 

In  subtlety  of  semitone, 

Or  set  in  sweet,  sad  minor  key, 

She  whispers  to  her  own 
The  secrets  of  her  harmony  ! 

Have  all  the  iron-footed  years 

Of  science  crushed  that  higher  sense 

Which  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
And  doubted  neither  where  now  whence 


ALPHA  CRUCIS.  ii 

The  soul  descended — of  our  birth  ? 

But,  seeing  endless  beauty  given 
To  every  common  thing  of  earth, 

Believed  it  but  the  gate  to  Heaven. 

The  theme  of  love  is  never  old. 

The  mystery  of  its  deathless  might 
Still  gives  each  life  its  age  of  gold. 

Lit  up  awhile  with  heavenly  light. 

With  every  generation  love 

Is  virgin  born,  and  springs  anew 
For  ever,  fed  from  founts  above, 

And  freshened  with  celestial  dew. 

"  Common  as  light  is  love,"  and  God 

Makes  all  men  equal  in  its  bliss. 
For  all  their  world  seems  angel  trod 

To  them,  fast  raptured  with  its  kiss. 

The  light  of  love  was  in  her  eyes, 
Her  beauty  thrilled  my  inmost  soul 

With  rapture  deeper  than  the  skies. 
Watching  the  midnight  planets  roll. 

One  passionless  star,  pulsed  bright  above, 
One  purple  dimness  wrapt  the  earth, 

When  first  we  told  over  mutual  love. 
And  rapturous  traced  it  from  its  birth. 

All  nature  sympathetic  seemed, 

The  wild  winds  whispered  gentler  by  ; 

With  softer,  whiter  radiance  gleamed 
The  stars,  which  lit  the  darkening  sky. 


12  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  spirit  of  all  heavenly  things 

Which  light  the  life  of  nature's  whole 

Creation,  thrilled  life's  deepest  springs, 
And  blended  passionate  soul  to  soul. 

Love's  music  fills  love's  soul  with  deep 
Ecstatic  harmonies,  which  seem 

To  blend  all  heaven's  with  earth's,  and  steep 
The  soul  in  some  Elysian  dream. 

But  never  comes  it  twice  on  earth 
To  him  who  has  it  once,  for  never 

Can  real  love  have  second  birth — 
It  comes  and  lives,  or  dies  for  ever. 

Great  love  is  lowly  as  'tis  great, 
And  in  its  mightiness  is  meek. 

And  so  it  smoothes  its  loved  one's  fate, 
No  lesser  pleasure  seeks  to  seek. 

Great  loves  love  greatly,  and  their  love 
Oft  makes  their  loved  ones  also  great, 

And  through  life's  toils  and  trials  prove 
How  lives  thus  strengthened  fear  no  fata 

There  is  no  jealousy  in  love. 

When  real — whate'er  the  sensual  saith, 
Its  nobleness  it  can  but  prove 

By  mutual,  deep  undoubting  faith. 

For  great  love  knows  no  jealous  fear, 
No  bitterness  its  greatness  mars, 

But  looks  beyond  Time's  little  year. 
To  live  unchanged  beyond  the  stars  ! 


ALPHA  CRUCIS.  13 

A  jealous  love  is  but  a  strong, 

Vain,  selfish  passion,  born  of  dust — 

Of  eartli's  desires  which  feareth  wrong, 
And  is  too  frail  to  trust  in  trust. 

A  great  love  disappointment  turns 

To  sorrow,  till  it  finds  relief 
In  lessening  others'  woes,  and  learns. 

In  soothing  theirs,  it  soothes  its  grief. 

0  love  !  if  love  lives  on  for  ever, 

Beyond  this  solid,  sensual  earth. 
And  death  itself  cannot  dissever 

Souls  twin-born  from  their  primal  birth. 

Then,  in  that  brighter  life  and  better. 

All  nobleness — but  half  concealed, 
Imprisoned  in  earth's  fleshly  fetter — 

Will  sudden  shine  forth  all  revealed. 

Self-abnegation — half  unheeded, — 

Self-hid,  self-conquest,  all  unseen, 
By  those  whose  life  through  it  succeeded, 

Yet  happy,  if  it  made  serene 

The  fate  of  those  it  loved  and  tended, 

And  made  their  happiness  its  own, 
Contented,  till  its  task  was  ended. 

To  know  its  sacrifice  unknown. 

Yea,  love  means  sacrifice ;  yet  they 
Who  give  the  most  receive  the  most, 

For  service  given  for  love  is  pay 
In  its  own  self,  and  counts  no  cost. 


14  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

But  generous-hearted,  noble  love, — - 
Unselfish,  earnest,  liberal  given, — 

On  earth  half-known — perchance  above 
Will  find  its  greatness  known  in  Heaven. 


Night. 


The  day  is  o'er — and  evensong 

And  rustic  dance  sound  sweet  afar — 

As  moonlight  floods  the  Kurrajong 

With  light  which  pales  each  lessening  star, 

Whose  radiance,  on  this  mountain -height, 
The  lower  lands  can  never  know, 

For  through  serener  air  they  light 

All  heaven  and  earth,  with  brighter  glow. 

Aldebaran,  with  ruddy  ray, 

Burns  deep  beyond  Orion's  belt — 

And  deeper  yet  the  clustering  blaze 
Of  Pleiades — whose  influence,  felt 

Through  all  the  dim  bright  milky  way, 
Controls  its  sj'-stems,  far  and  near, 

To  roll  through  Time's  tremendous  day, 
Towards  Eternity's  full  year. 

Lo  !  far  adown  the  eastern  skies, 

Above  the  low  horizon's  rim, 
Processioned  constellations  rise, 

As  though  they  rose  to  worship  Him 


ALPHA  CRUCIS.  15 

Within  the  hollow  of  whose  hand, 
Through  all  the  countless  years  of  elJ, 

The  ocean  and  the  ancient  land 
And  all  Creation's  worlds  are  held ! 

"With  soft  effulgence — spreading  far 

Above  the  dewy  mist  which  hides 
The  vast  plain's  edge — the  luminous  star 

Of  Aphrodite  silvery  glides. 

In  silent  splendour  up  the  arch 

Whose  keystone  is  the  sacred  throne 

Of  Him  who  rules  the  thunder  march, 
Through  space  of  every  starry  zone. 

The  melloAv  moonlight  washes  all 

The  sleeping  world  with  saintly  light — 

And  silently  the  soft  dews  fall 

In  fragrant  freshness  through  the  night. 

Throughout  the  clear  deep  hyaline, 
Some  worldless  beauty  seems  to  fill 

All  space,  with  influence  half  divine — 
Which  subtly,  with  electric  thrill, 

Wakes  up  vague  memories  of  some  past 
Dim  splendour,  of  some  earlier  birth, 

Amid  majestic  Avorlds — more  vast, 
Serener  far,  than  this  of  Earth  ! 

However  sneer  the  worldly  wise, 
"  Man  liveth  not  by  bread  alone  ! " 

His  soul  claims  kindred  with  the  skies, 
And  all  of  Earth's  best  «ifts  alone 


1 6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Can  never  feed  the  yearning  crave 
Instinctive  for  some  higher  life 

He  blindly  sees  beyond  the  grave, 
Above  the  dust  of  earthly  strife ! 

The  workshops  of  the  world  grow  blind 
With  smoke,  afar  from  flower  and  sod, 

They  see  but  triumphs  of  the  mind 
Of  man,  and  cease  to  think  of  God. 

They  triumph  in  their  little  day, 

They  feverish  clutch  their  golden  gains, 

And  yet  with  time  they  pass  away. 
Whilst  time  and  nature  still  remains  ! 

Our  life  is  thronged  with  hopes  and  fears, 
Faint  gleams  of  joy,  fierce  glooms  of  pain, 

Make  up  the  measure  of  our  years. 

But  should,  perchance,  our  hopes  be  vain, 

May  not  our  fears  be  vain  likewise  ? 

And  all  the  dread  hereafter  be 
A  sleep  in  which  our  tired  eyes 

"Sleep  well"  through  all  Eternity  ! 

Old  age,  of  strength  and  hope  bereft, 

And  breathing  but  with  laboured  breath, 

Hath  but  this  saddening  solace  left : 
Forgetfulness  in  sleep — and  death  ! 

However  bright  life's  surface  woof, 
Its  web  is  woven  in  the  loom 

Of  fate,  to  fade  for  death's  behoof, 
And  clothes  but  skeletons  of  doom. 


ALPHA  CRUCIS.  17 

"VVe  see  the  mystery  of  sin, 

We  know  the  mystery  of  pain, 
We  feel  too  weak  the  crown  to  win, 

And  fear  we  bear  the  cross  in  vain. 

Sadness  and  cynicism  breathe 

Their  blight  upon  this  age  of  ours, 
And  pitying  smile  at  those  who  wreathe 

The  altar  of  their  faith  with  flowers. 

"  These  be  thy  gods,  0  Israel,  these  !  " 
Cries  scornful  Pity ;  "  wax  they  wroth 

Unless  their  vanity  ye  please 

With  candle  and  with  altar-cloth  ! 

Fools  that  ye  are  !  and  blind  as  weak  ! 

The  God  of  truth  is  mightier  far 
Than  this  poor  tinselled  thing  ye  seek — 

His  temple-light  is  sun  and  star  !  " 

We  call  to  Him  with  prayerful  cries  ! 

We  listening  wait — with  bated  breath  ! 
No  answer  cometh  from  the  skies, 

And  earth  but  dumbly  shows  us  death  ! 

The  age  of  miracles  is  past, — 

Swift  answer  unto  prayer  would  be 

A  sudden  miracle — as  vast 
As  those  of  Him  of  Galilee  ! 

AH  men,  all  things,  bow  down  to  fate  ; 

The  demi-gods  Avho  ruled  the  spheres 
Were  conquered  by  it,  soon  or  late 

Trod  down  by  iron-footed  years. 

B 


i8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

In  life's  full  moon  its  shadows  lie, 
Beneath  our  feet — where'er  we  gaze 

We  see  far-spread  a  summer  sky, 
And  life  lit  up  with  happy  rays. 

In  youth  we  walk  towards  the  sun, 

And  all  our  shadow  backward  sweeps — 

But  when  life's  race  is  nearly  run, 

Our  lengthening  shadow  forward  creeps 

And  dims  the  slanting  sunset  light 
As,  stumbling  on,  we  darkly  tread. 

Till  all  the  silent  gloom  of  night 
Eternal  closes  overhead  ! — 

The  great  repose  which  hallows  death. 
When  first  it  seals  life's  tired  eyes 

And  closes  fast  the  lips,  whose  breath 
Hath  ebbed  from  sighing  into  sighs  ! 

Man — even  fiends — appalled  would  shrink 
From  contemplating  endless  pain  ! 

And  darest  thou,  0  mortal !  think 

Just  God  could  gloat  o'er  endless  pain  1 

Eternal  torment  is  a  lie. 

As  wild  and  wicked  as  the  dream 

Of  some  mad  monster,  who  should  try 
How  worst  of  worst  he  could  blaspheme. 

God  is  as  mightier  than  man 
As  mightiest  is  to  meanest,  so 

His  mercy  must  be  tenderer  than 
The  tenderest  mercy  mortals  know. 


ALPHA  CRUCIS.  19 

If  otherwise,  then  man  were  greater 

In  goodness  than  the  Lord  of  all ! 
The  creature,  than  his  great  Creator ! 

And  God  less  noble  than  His  thrall ! 

Nature  knows  neither  worst  nor  best — 

No  "  stepson  "  weed,  no  "  favourite  "  flower, 

Both  equal  nourished  at  her  breast. 
And  equal  fed,  with  sun  and  shower ! 

So  Nature's  equal  gifts  were  given 

To  man — no  "  favouritism  "  there — • 
And  so,  perchance,  in  highest  Heaven 

Both  great  and  small  may  equal  sliare  ! 

Our  life  goes  on  through  liglit  and  shade, 

Through  storm  and  calm,  through  gloom  and  shine, 

Our  soul  unknowing  why  'twas  made, 
Yet  hopeful  dreaming — some  divine 

And  stronger  purpose  than  this  earth, 

With  all  its  experience,  learns 
"Was  blent  within  us  at  our  birth — 

That  some  dim  spark  of  Godhead  burns 

For  ever,  like  a  vestal  fire. 

Within  our  inmost  being's  cell, 
Which  rises  from  our  funeral  pyre 

To  loftier  worlds — "  where  all  is  well  "■ — 

And  with  its  tried  experience  guides 

Our  larger  life — in  loftier  spheres, 
Amidst  celestial  sweeping  tides. 

Which  bear  the  burthen  of  the  years, 


20  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Of  time  and  fate,  with  widening  course, 
'Midst  stars  serener — Serapli-trod, 

Until  they  reach  their  parent  source, 
And  give  His  gifts  back,  unto  God  ! 

Like  furnace-fired,  ice-tempered  ore. 

Bent,  hot,  not  broke,  with  blows  of  ill, 

But  stronger-tempered  more  and  more, 
By  pain  and  toil,  to  work  His  will ! 

Eternal  life  !     Eternal  change 
Of  happy  work  with  happy  rest ! 

Where  "work  is  worship"  through  all  range 
Of  ages,  growing  each  more  blest ! 


MES.  W.  J.  ANDERSOK 

{Emma  Frances  BaTcer.) 

Born  1842— Died  1868. 

[Youngest  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  C.  K.  Baker  of  Hillside,  Mor- 
phett  Vale,  South  Australia,  brought  to  the  colony  a  year  after 
her  birth.  Many  of  the  poems  appeared  in  Australian  periodi- 
cals under  the  name  of  "Frances."  In  1S64  she  married  Mr. 
Anderson  of  the  Mauritian  Civil  Service,  and  left  the  colony 
with  sad  forebodings  (which  were  fulfilled)  that  she  would 
never  again  behold  the  home  of  her  childhood.  Her  departure 
was  marked  by  a  touching  poem  entitled  "An  Australian 
Girl's  Farewell."  She  died  at  Souillac,  in  the  island  of 
Mauritius,  on  1 2th  April  1868,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-five. 
Her  works  have  been  collected  into  a  volume  entitled  Colonial 
Poems,  privately  published  by  Marlborough  &  Co.,  London.] 

THE  SONG  OF  A  LIFE. 

I  DREAMT  of  a  song,  a  sad,  sad  song ; 

It  stole  through  my  sleep 

With  tones  so  deep 
That  the  echoes  loved  it  and  kept  it  long. 


E.  F.  ANDERSON.  2i 

Repeating  again 
The  soft  low  strain, 
Till  I  woke  and  remembered  its  gentle  paiu ; 
And  all  day  long 
It  haunts  my  brain, — 

This  Song. 

The  moon  is  above  the  hill,  mother ; 

A  ray  of  its  gentle  light 
Has  silently  come,  like  a  blessing, 

To  comfort  the  earth  this  night. 
But  my  heart  seems  like  a  valley 

"N^^iere  the  moonbeams  never  play. 
All  sad  with  the  gay  world  round  it. 

All  dark  in  the  midst  of  day. 
Yes,  the  earth  may  be  full  of  gladness. 

But  what  is  its  joy  to  me  1 — 
The  brighter  the  sun  shines  out,  mother, 

The  darker  the  shades  will  be  ; 
And  I'm  walking  now  in  the  shadows 

By  the  very  brightness  cast. 
I've  been  looking  far  in  the  future, 

To  see  whether  joy  will  last, 
And  I  find  it  is  ever  fading 

As  the  weary  years  go  by. 
I  fear  I  sliall  live  to  feel,  mother. 

Life  but  a  long-drawn  sigh. 
When  the  arms  that  clasp  me  now,  mother. 

And  the  hearts  I  call  my  own 
Leave  me,  poor  me  !  in  the  world,  mother, 

In  the  wide,  wide  world  alone ; 
When  my  heart,  like  a  field  in  summer. 

Is  burnt  with  the  world's  hot  breath. 
And  the  flowers  that  bloomed  in  the  spring-time 

Have  drooped  'neath  its  touch  of  death. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

O  !  they  must  all  come  to  me,  mother, 
The  sorrows  that  others  know  ; 

Let  me  die  before  they  come,  mother, 
I'm  wearying  now  to  go. 


NO  ROOM  FOR  TEE  DEAD. 

Yes,  the  earth  is  bright, 

And  hearts  are  light ; 

And  none  would  know 

That  years  ago 

A  grave  was  made. 

And  a  loved  one  laid 

Away  from  the  sorrowing  sight. 

For  flowers  have  grown 

Where  tears  were  sown, 

And  memories  die 

As  the  years  go  by. 

Till  the  living  have  said, 

"  No  room  for  the  dead 

In  this  beautiful  world  of  our  own  ; 
No  room  for  the  stars  in  a  mid-day  sky, 
No  room  for  the  grass  with  the  garden  flowers ; 
No  room  for  the  tears  in  a  joyful  eye, 
No  room  for  the  dead  in  this  world  of  ours." 


E.  F.  ANDERSON.  23 


E  VENING. 

A     FRAGMENT. 

It  is  the  evening  hour,  and  silently 

The  day  has  folded  all  his  robes  of  light, 

And  laid  them  gently  on  tlie  sea's  blue  breast, 

"While,  one  by  one,  pale  little  trembling  stars 

Come  forth  to  watch  the  last  faint  crimson  streak 

Fade  from  the  west.     How  beautiful  it  is  ! 

How  calm  and  holy  this  still  eventide  ! 

And  some  there  are,  who  through  the  long  hot  day 

Have  watched  and  yearned  for  such  a  peaceful  hour, 

Sick  with  the  care  or  weary  with  the  pain 

Of  life.     Day's  sunlight  seemed  but  mockery, 

Each  tired  head  shrank  from  it,  and  the  eyes, 

Aching  with  unshed  tears,  waited  for  night, 

Soft  pitying  night,  in  her  soft  viewless  arms 

To  weep  unseen. 

And  it  is  come  ;  the  heat 
And  burden  of  one  toilsome  day  is  past ; 
A  cool  wind  fans  the  feverish  cheek,  and  lifts 
The  damp  hair  softly  from  the  throbbing  brow. 
Oh,  rest  and  peace,  how  sweetly  have  ye  come 
With  the  dim  shadows  of  the  quiet  eve ! 
And  I  could  stay  for  ever  in  the  calm 
Of  this  still  dreamy  hour,  for  ever  watch 
The  darkness  gathering  o'er  the  yellow  field?!, 
And  welcome  all  the  crowding  stars  that  come 
So  quickly,  filling  every  space  of  blue, 
Until  the  sky  seems  like  some  glorious  mind, 
All  full  of  starry  thoughts. 


24  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

No  ruder  sound 
Than  the  low  hushing  of  the  Avaving  trees, 
Rocking  all  weary  little  birds  to  rest ; 
K"o  rougher  breeze  than  this,  which  scarcely  plucks, 
With  its  soft  fingers,  autumn's  withering  leaves, 
Disturb  my  rest. 

But  I  am  dreaming  now, 
I'm  dreaming,  dreaming  till  my  heart  is  full, — 
So  full  of  peace  and  joy  in  this  calm  hour. 
All  perfect  in  its  holy  loveliness, 
That  I  have  almost  sighed  to  think,  in  Heaven 
There  is  no  ni^ht. 


THOUGHTS  ON  ENDING  THE  YEAR  1S67. 

How  stealthily  the  old  year  dies  ! 
We  may  not  catch  his  parting  sighs, 
Or  even  on  the  withered  grass 
Hear  a  retreating  footstep  pass, 

And  yet  we  know 
This  old  old  year  has  reached  his  time  to  go. 

We  know  for  us  the  summer's  breath 
Has  touched  each  hill  and  vale  with  death, 
And  where  the  winter  flowers  have  been. 
And  where  the  grass  grew  soft  and  green, 

'Tis  brown  and  dry, 
And  nature,  with  the  old  year,  seems  to  die. 


ANONYMOUS.  2$ 

ANONYMOUS. 

A    VOICE  FROM  THE  BUSH. 

[This  poem  has  hitherto  been  printed  among  the  works  of  Adam 
Lindsay  Gordon,  but  its  real  authorship  is  well  known  among 
students  of  Australian  literature  ;  and  though  the  author 
wishes  his  name  not  to  appear  again,  the  poem  is  given  as 
finally  revised  by  him  for  Australian  Ballads  and  Rhymes. 
In  that  volume,  a  printer,  after  the  proofs  had  been  sent  back 
finally  corrected,  finding  this  poem  given  anonymously,  took 
upon  himself  to  append  the  name  of  the  author  of  the  pre- 
ceding piece,  which  happened  to  be  that  of  the  editor,  who, 
of  course,  immediately  wrote  off  to  the  papers  the  disclaimer 
repeated  here.] 

High  noon,  and  not  a  cloud,  in  the  sky  to  break  this 

blinding  si:n ; 
Well,  I've  half  the  day  before  me  still,  and  most  of  my 

journey  done. 
There's  little  enough  of  shade  to  be  got,  but  I'll  take  what 

I  can  get, 
F(jr  I'm  not  as  hearty  as  once  I  was,  although  I'm  a  young 

man  yet. 

Young  ?    "Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so,  as  far  as  the  seasons  go  ; 
Though  there's  many  a  man  far  older  than  I  down  there 

in  the  town  below, — 
Older,  but  men  to  whom,  in  the  pride  of  their  manhood 

strong, 
The  hardest  work  is  never  too  hard,  nor  the  longest  day 

too  long. 

But  I've  cut  ray  cake,  so  I  can't  complain,  and  I've  only 

myself  to  blame, 
Ay  !  that  was  always  their  tale  at  home,  and  here  it's 

just  the  same  ; 


26  A  USTRA  LI  AN  POE  TS. 

Of  the  seed  I've  sown  in  pleasure,  the  harvest  I'm  reaping 

in  pain. 
Could  I  put  my  life  a  few  years  back,  would  I  live  that 

life  again  ? 

Would  1 1     Of   course  I  would  !     What   glorious   days 

they  were  ! 
It  sometimes  seems  but  the  dream  of  a  dream  that  life 

could  have  been  so  fair, 
So   sweet,   but  a  short  time   back,    while  now,   if   one 

can  call. 
This  life,  I  almost  doubt  at  times  if  it's  worth  the  living 

at  all. 

One  of  these  poets — which  is  it  1 — somewhere  or  another 

sings, 
That  the  crown   of   a   sorrow's  sorrow  is  remembering 

happier  things. 
What  the  crown  of  a  sorrow's  sorrow  may  be  I  know  not, 

but  this  I  know, — 
It  lightens  the  years  that  are  now  sometimes  to  think  of 

the  years  ago. 

Where  are  they  now,  I  wonder,  with  whom  those  years 

were  passed  1 
The  pace  was  a  little  too  good,  I  fear,  for  many  of  them 

to  last ; 
And  there's  always  plenty  to  take  their  place  when  the 

leaders  begin  to  decline  ; 
Still  I  wish  them  well,  wherever  they  are,  for  the  sake 

of  auld  lang  syne  ! 

Jack  Villiers — galloping   Jack — what   a  beggar  he  was 

to  ride  ! — 
Was  shot  in  a  gambling  row  last  year  on  the  Californian 

side  : 


ANONYMOUS.  27 

And  Byng,  the  best  of  the  lot,  who  was  broke  in  the 

Derby  of  fifty-eight, 
Is  keeping  sheep  with  Harry  Lepell  somewhere  on  the 

Eiver  Plate. 

Do  they  ever  think  of  me  atall,  and  the  fun  we  used  to  share? 
It  gives  me  a  pleasant  hour  or  so — and  I've  none  too 

many  to  spare. 
This  dull  blood  runs  as  it  used  to  run,  and  the  spent 

flame  flickers  up, 
As  I  think  on  the  cheers  that  rang  in  my  ears  when  I  won 

the  Garrison  Cup  ! 

And  how  the  regiment  roared  to  a  man,  while  the  voice 

of  the  fielders  shook. 
As  I  swung  in  my  stride,  six  lengths  to  the  good,  hard 

held,  over  Brixworth  Brook  : 
Instead  of  the  parrot's  screech,  I  seem  to  hear  the  twang 

of  the  horn, 
As  once  again  from  BarkleyHolt  I  set  the  pick  of  theQuorn. 

Well,  those  were  harmless  pleasures  enough ;  for  I  hold 

him  worse  than  an  ass 
Who  shakes  his  head  at  a  "  neck  on  the  post "  or  a  quick 

thing  over  the  grass. 
Go  for  yourself,  and  go  to  win,  and  you  can't  very  well 

go  wrong — 
Gad  !  if  I'd  only  stuck  to  that  I'd  be  singing  a  different  song ! 

As  to  the  one  I'm  singing,  it's  pretty  well  known  to  all. 
We  knew  too  much,  but  not  quite  enough,  and  so  we 

went  to  the  wall ; 
While  those  who  cared  not,  if  their  work  was  done,  how 

dirty  their  hands  might  be. 
Went  up  on  our  shoulders  and  kicked  us  down,  when 

they  got  to  the  top  of  the  tree. 


28  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

But  though  it's  one's  mind  at  times,  there's  little  good  in 

a  curse. 
One  comfort  is,  though  it's  not  very  well,  it  might  be 

a  great  deal  worse. 
A  roof  to  my  head,  and  a  bite  to  my  mouth,  and  no  one 

likely  to  know 
I'm  "  Bill  the  Bushman,"  the  dandy  who  went  to  the 

dogs  long  years  ago. 

Out  there  on  the  station  among  the  lads  I  get  along  pretty 

well ; 
It's  only  when  I  come  down  into  town  that  I  feel  this 

life  such  a  hell. 
Booted  and  bearded  and  burned  to  a  brick,  I  loaf  along 

the  street ; 
And  I  watch  the  ladies  tripping  by,  and  bless  their  dainty 

feet. 

I  watch  them  here  and  there  with  a  bitter  feeling  of  pain, 
Ah  !  what  wouldn't  I  give  to  feel  a  lady's  hand  again  ! 
They  used  to  be  glad  to  see  me  once ;  they  might  have 

been  so  to-day ; 
But  we  never  know  the  worth  of  a  thing  until  we  have 

thrown  it  away. 

I  watch  them  but  from  afar ;  and  I  pull  my  old  cap  over 

my  eyes. 
Partly  to  hide  the  tears,  that  rude  and  rough  as  I  am, 

will  rise. 
And   partly  because    I    cannot  bear  that  such  as  they 

should  see 
The  man  that  I  am,  when  I  know,  though  they  don't,  the 

man  that  I  ou"ht  to  be. 


AUSTRAL.  29 

Puff!  with  the  last  whiff  of  my  pipe  I  blow  these  fancies 

away, 
For  I  must  be  jogging  along  if  I  want  to  get  down  into 

town  to-day. 
As  I  know  I  shall  reach  my  journey's  end  though  I  travel 

not  over  fast, 
So  the  end  of  my  longer  journey  will  come  in  its  own 

frood  time  at  last. 


AUSTRAL. 

[A  nom-de-plume  of  Mrs.  J.  G.  Wilson,  of  Wellington,  New 
Zealand,  nee  Miss  Adams,  of  St.  Enoch's,  Victoria — a  con- 
stant contributor  to  the  Australasian.] 

COMPENSATION. 

Fret  not  that  in  thy  dwelling-place 
The  street  is  silent,  the  field  is  bare, 

Nor  canst  thou  forth  to  brighter  space. 
Nor  sail  where  summer  seas  are  fair, 

For  night  by  night  thy  dusky  lattice-bars 

Are  visited  by  the  journeying  host  of  stars. 

Scorn  not  our  nature's  narrow  bound. 

An  atom  blown  about  in  vain ; 
One  thought  contains  yon  shining  round, 

And  circles  o'er  the  circling  plain. 
Each  vanishing  life  that  o'er  the  dust  is  bent 
Is  nourished  by  the  boundless  firmament. 

Mourn  not  our  fading,  transient  day. 

For  over  us  a  dream  will  shine, 
A  vision  of  eternity, 

That  makes  one  little  hour  divine  ; 
Through  this  dim  window  we  look  out  of  doors, 
On  purple  hills  and  seas,  and  endless  happy  shores. 


30  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


THE  FORTY  MILE  BUSH. 

Far  in  the  forest's  aromatic  shade 

We  rode,  one  afternoon  of  golden  ease ; 

The  long  road  ran  through  sunshine  and  through  shade, 
Lulled  by  the  somnolent  stories  of  the  trees. 

Sometimes  a  bell-bird  fluted  far  away, 
Sometimes  the  murmur  of  the  leafy  deep, 

Rising  and  falling  all  the  autumnal  day, 
Rolled  on  the  hills  and  sank  again  to  sleep. 

Mile  after  mile  the  same.     The  sky  grew  red, 
And  through  the  trees  we  saw  a  snowy  gleam 

Of  phantom  peak,  and  spectral  mountain-head, 
And  gulfs  that  nurse  the  glacier  and  the  stream. 

Before  us  lay  the  pinewood's  sombre  miles. 

Thick  laid  with  moss,  like  furs  upon  the  floor ; 

Behind,  the  woodland's  green  monotonous  aisles, 
Closed  in  the  west  by  sunset's  amber  door. 

This  is  the  Snow  King's  threshold  and  dominion  1 
The  frozen  ranges  white,  without  a  stain. 

Like  icy  wings  outspread,  and' flying  pinion. 
Ready  to  soar  above  the  cloudy  plain. 

Deep  in  the  glen  the  hollow  waters,  racing. 
Sent  forth  their  turbulent  voices  to  the  night, 

The  stars  above  began  their  solemn  pacing. 
And  homely  shone  the  distant  village  light. 

Mysterious  forest !  In  this  humming  city 
I  seem  to  hear  thy  music-breathing  tree  ; 

Thy  branches  wave  and  beckon  me,  in  pity. 
To  seek  again  thy  hospitality  ! 


AUSTRAL. 


A  SPRING  AFTERNOON,  N.  Z. 

Wb  rode  in  the  shadowy  place  of  pines, 

The  wind  went  whispering  here  and  there 

Like  whispers  in  a  house  of  prayer. 
The  sunshine  stole  in  narrow  lines, 

And  sweet  was  the  resinous  atmosphere. 

The  shrill  cicada,  far  and  near, 
Piped  on  his  high  exultant  third. 

Summer  !  Summer  !  he  seems  to  say — 
Summer  ! — he  knows  no  other  word. 

But  trills  on  it  the  livelong  day ; 
The  little  hawker  of  the  green, 
Who  calls  his  wares  through  all  the  solemn  forest 

scene. 

A  shadowy  land  of  deep  repose  ! 
Here  where  the  loud  nor'-wester  blows, 
How  sweet,  to  soothe  a  trivial  care, 
The  pine-tree's  ever-murmured  prayer  ! 
To  shake  the  scented  powder  down 

From  stooping  boughs  that  bar  the  way, 
And  see  the  vistas,  golden  brown, 

Stretch  to  the  skj'-line  far  away  ! 
But  on  and  upward  still  we  ride, 

Whither  the  furze,  an  outlaw  bold. 
Scatters  along  the  bare  hillside 

Handfuls  of  free  uncounted  gold. 
And  breaths  of  nutty,  wild  perfume 
Salute  us  from  the  flowering  broom. 
I  love  this  narrow  sandy  road. 

That  idly  gads  o'er  hill  and  vale, 
Twisting  where  once  a  rivulet  flowed, 

With  as  many  turns  as  a  gossip's  tale. 


32  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I  love  this  shaky,  creaking  bridge, 
And  the  willow  leaning  from  the  ridge, 

Shaped  like  some  green  fountain  playing, 
And  the  twinkling  windows  of  the  farm. 
Just  where  the  woodland  throws  an  arm, 

To  hear  what  the  merry  stream  is  saying. 

Stop  the  horses  for  a  moment,  high  upon  the  breezy  stair, 
Looking  over  plain  and  upland,  and  the  depths  of  summer 

air, 
Watch  the  cloud  and  shadow  sailing  o'er   the  forest's 

sombre  breast. 
Misty  capes  and  snow-cliffs  glimmer  on  the  ranges  to  the 

west. 
Hear  that  distant  thunder  rolling,  surely  'tis  the  making 

tide, 
Swinging  all  the  blue  Pacific  on  the  harbour's  iron  side. 
Now  the  day  grows  grey  and  chill,  but  see  on  yonder 

wooded  fold. 
Between  the  clouds,  a  ray  of  sunshine  slips,  and  writes  a 

word  in  gold ! 


FAIRYLAND. 

Do  you  remember  that  careless  band, 
Riding  o'er  meadow  and  wet  sea-sand. 

One  autumn  day,  in  a  mist  of  sunshine, 
Joyously  seeking  for  Fairyland  ? 

The  wind  in  the  tree-tops  was  scarcely  heard, 
The  streamlet  repeated  its  one  silver  word, 

And  far  away,  o'er  the  depths  of  woodland, 
Floated  the  bell  of  the  parson-bird. 


AUSTRAL.  33 

Pale  hoar-frost  glittered  in  shady  slips, 
Where  ferns  -were  dipping  their  finger-tips, 

From  mossy  branches  a  faint  perfume 
Breathed  over  honeyed  clematis-lips. 

At  last  we  climbed  to  the  ridge  on  high — 
Ah,  crystal  vision  !  Dreamland  nigh  ! 
Far,  far  below  us,  the  wide  Pacific 
Slumbered  in  azure  from  sky  to  sk3\ 

And  cloud  and  shadow,  across  the  deep 
Wavered,  or  paused  in  enchanted  sleep. 

And  eastward,  the  purple-misted  islets 
Fretted  the  wave  with  terrace  and  steep. 

We  looked  on  the  tranquil,  glassy  bay. 
On  headlands  sheeted  with  dazzling  spray, 

And  the  whitening  ribs  of  a  wreck  forlorn, 
That  for  twenty  years  had  wasted  away. 

All  was  so  calm,  and  pure,  and  fair. 
It  seemed  the  hour  of  worship  there. 

Silent  as  where  the  great  North  Minster 
Rises  for  ever,  a  visible  prayer 

Then  we  turned  from  the  murmurous  forest  land. 
And  rode  over  shingle  and  silver  sand, 

For  so  fair  was  the  earth  in  the  golden  autumn, 
We  sought  no  further  for  Fairyland. 


34  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


"  AUSTRALIE." 

[A  nom-de-phone  of  ^trs.  Hubert  Heron,  a  daughter  of  Sir  Wm. 
Manning,  a  judge  in  the  Supreme  Court  of  New  South  Wales, 
and  Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Sydney.  Australie  is  one 
of  her  Christian  names.  Authoress  of  a  volume  of  poems,  TIlc 
Balance  of  Pain  (George  Bell  &  Sous,  London,  1877)]. 

THE  QUIET  DUST. 

The  quiet  dust  lay  on  the  tranquil  breast 
Of  mother  Earth,  all  peacefully  at  rest ; 
The  gentle  breezes  kissed  it,  and  the  dew 
A  veil  of  moisture  o'er  its  slumbers  threw ; 
The  rain  and  wind  swept  o'er  its  sleeping  face, 
Yet  scarcely  stirred  it  from  its  resting-place ; 
For  grassy  fibres  e'en  had  bound  it  fast, 
And  round  each  grain  embracing  roots  had  cast. 
The  soil,  unconscious,  nourishing  green  blades, 
Fulfilled  its  silent  work  through  long  decades — 
And  so  the  quiet  dust  was  blest — in  quietness  it  lay  at 
rest. 

The  Maker  took  the  dust  within  His  hand, 
In  human  shape  He  formed  the  grains  of  sand, 
In  His  own  image  wrought  the  humble  clay. 
With  breath  Divine  He  warmed  it  for  life's  day. 
The  dust  awoke  !  it  lived,  it  spoke,  it  moved, 
It  learnt  ambition — struggled,  strove,  and — loved. 
Created  pure,  by  sin  becoming  marred. 
Discordant  passions  in  its  members  warred  ; 
Earth  clung  to  earth,  while  impulses  Divine, 
Yearning  to  soar,  held  down,  would  restless  pine ; 
And  so  the  quickened  dust,  distrest,  in   fevered  living 
know  no  rest. 


''AUSTRALIEy  33 

Tlie  Father  looked  with  pity  on  the  strife, 
He  noted  all  the  care  and  pain  of  life, 
And  sending  Death  with  tender  healing  power?. 
Cut  short  the  span  of  the  long  trial-hours. 
He  bade  the  soul,  untrammelled,  soar  on  high, 
And  quit  its  prison-frame  witli  weary  sigh  ; 
He  drew  the  breath  from  out  the  tired  clay, 
And  on  its  mother's  breast  again  it  lay ; 
And  life  returned  to  Life  with  ransom  paid, 
And  earth  to  earth  in  peacefulness  was  laid — 
And  so  the  quiet  dust  was  blest — in  quietness  once  more 
at  rest. 


THE  WEATHERBOARD  FALL. 

A  MIGHTY  crescent  of  grim  cavern'd  rock. 
Red-grey,  or  gold-brown,  with  black  broken  rifts 
Upon  the  bare  face  of  the  circled  walls 
That  bold  uprise  from  out  a  sloping  wealth 
Of  foliage  rich,  that  in  moist  shadowed  depths 
Revel  in  shelter,  spread  out  happy  leaves 
To  be  for  ever  kissed  by  dewy  drops 
Light-wafted  from  the  murmuring  waterfalL 
Ah  !  who  can  show  the  beauty  of  the  scene  ? 
Above,  the  wooded  mountain  summit  green. 
Now  gently  falling  into  softer  banks. 
Emerald  with  fern,  gleichenia,  grass-tree  bright. 
Yet  boldened,  strengthened,  by  rough  aged  crags, 
In  bare  wild  outline,  amber-tinged,  or  streaked 
With  hoar  grey  lichen,  yet  oft  holding  too, — 
Like  toucli  of  child-love  in  a  cold  stern  breast, — 
Cherished  in  clefts,  some  tender  verdant  nests 
Of  velvet  moss,  lone  flowers,  and  grasses  soft. 
Beyond — seen  'twixt  two  guardian  cliffs  that  cast 


;  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Black  giant  shadows  on  the  tree-clad  slopes — 
An  inland  sea  of  mountains,  stretching  far 
In  undulating  billows,  deeply  blue, 
AVith  here  and  there  a  gleaming  crest  of  rock, 
Surging  in  stillness,  fading  into  space. 
Seeming  more  liquid  in  the  distance  vague, 
Transparent  melting,  till  the  last  faint  ridge 
Blends  with  clear  ether  in  the  azure  sky 
In  tender  mauve  unrealness ;  the  dim  line 
Of  mountain  profile  seeming  but  a  streak 
Of  waving  cloud  on  the  horizon's  verge. 

A  few  steps  further — comes  in  fuller  view 
The  stream  that  o'er  the  mountain  summit  winds, 
Forcing  its  way  with  many  a  cascade  step, 
And  hurrying  to  the  rampart's  brow,  from  which, 
Adown  a  thousand  awful  feet  it  falls, 
Changing  from  gleaming  water  to  white  foam, 
Then  all  dissolving  into  separate  sprays, 
Like  clustered  columns  white  of  moving  light, 
Or  April  shower  of  diamond-gleaming  rain, 
AVhereon  the  sun  plays  with  his  rainbow  hues, 
Till  hid  in  shadow  oft  it  disappears 
Into  the  grateful  coolness  of  the  depths ; 
Resigning  centred  beauty  for  a  while, 
Yet  showing  forth  its  presence  by  the  tints 
So  rich  enhanced  by  the  bedewing  love 
That  with  soft  tears  refreshes  budding  leaves 
And  calls  forth  life. 

With  artist  instinct  true, 
Longing  to  fix  the  beauty  in  his  soul, 
To  tell  to  others  what  himself  has  loved, 
In  art  to  utter  the  impression  grand. 
Now  Templar  sits  and  striveth  to  portray 
The  glorious  scene.     Alas  !  no  paint  can  match 
The  varying  hues,  no  pencil  may  express 


''AUSTRALIE:'  37 

The  foaming  fall,  a  grand  ampliitlioatro 
Of  range  on  range,  in  distance  fairy-like, 
Marked  ever  and  anon  by  sun  and  shade. 
And  white  light  glint  of  rock  bits  !     Down 
He  lays  the  brush  in  weary  baffled  pain, 
And  then  essays  to  write.     Xay,  poorer  yet 
The  power  of  words  to  speak  out  Nature's  soul. 
Or  tell  her  wondrous  colours.     E'en  one  rock 
Has  twenty  divers  tints  for  which  one  name 
!Must  all  suffice ;  no  written  sign  can  show 
The  glancing  light  of  water,  blend  the  shades 
And  trace  the  outlines  fine  of  distant  view. 

And  were  there  power  to  mark  the  endless  traits, 
Still  who  could  paint  the  ever-varying  moods'? 
Ere  one  effect  is  seized  another  comes 
To  transform  every  aspect ;  memory  fails 
To  hold  the  past,  and  human  cunning  seems 
Too  slow  to  follow  the  swift-moving  scenes. 
Vain,  vain  attempt  !     Better  in  calm  to  watch 
The  "  beauty  as  it  flies,  nor  bend  it  down  " 
To  mock  by  words. 

So  ceases  he  to  strive. 
But  sits  entranced,  soul-soothed  to  harmony 
With  Nature's  glorious  work,  by  peaceful  sounds, 
Crescendo,  decrescendo,  of  the  fall, 
Down-pouring  with  a  solemn  sonorous  bass 
To  rippling  trills  of  the  upland  stream, 

Silent,  unalterable,  stands  the  scene, 
A  monument  of  everlasting  power. 
By  strength  imbuing  strength,  a  protest  grand 
Against  the  mutability  of  life. 
A  protest?     Ay,  but  in  its  form  alone. 
For,  changeable  as  man  is,  Nature's  face. 
The  s\ibstance,  outline,  firmly  stand  the  same, 
Yet  seem  not  so ;  for  every  passing  light 


38  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Varies  its  aspect,  hides  some  salient  points, 
Or  brings  in  prominence  a  new  detail. 
Sometimes  the  bay  of  mountain-rippled  blue 
Lies  clear  in  smiling  sunshine,  shadeless  fair, 
Till  in  the  vault  the  light  clouds  fly ; 
Then  swift  the  pure  unbroken  smile  is  gone, 
And  flitting  frowns  pass  o'er  Earth's  countenance, 
Or  some  great  storm-cloud  rises,  shrouding  part 
Of  Heaven's  light,  and  straightway  half  the  world 
Of  dreamy  blue  is  black  with  angry  gloom, 
While  some  near  peak  glows  laughing  still  in  light. 
Yea,  even  bravest  outlines  seem  to  change, 
As  upward  mounts  the  sun  and  'lumes  or  shades 
The  various  ridges,  pencilling  in  one  slope 
To  clear  curved  line,  or  rounding  off  some  cliff 
That  hours  before  stood  bold  against  the  sky. 

So  doth  the  Maker,  while  He  sets  the  stamp 
Of  steadfast  strength,  yet  vary  all  His  work 
With  changeful  joys  of  light  and  purple  gloom. 
Or  cloud-reflected  folds  of  soothing  grey, 
By  vast  resource  of  tinted  picturing 
And  endless  nature-language,  e'en  as  much 
As  by  His  mightier  powers,  transcending  aye 
The  utmost  skill  of  art,  and  batiiing  all 
The  efforts  vain  of  imitative  man, 
Who  fain  must  still  aspire,  but — hopeless  aim ! 
Can  ne'er  express  in  his  poor  human  words 
The  dorious  works  of  man. 


''AUSTRALIE."  39 

THE  BUDDA  WONG'S  CROWN. 

A  BUDDAWONQ  seed-iiut  fell  to  earth 

In  a  cool  and  mossy  glade, 
And  in  spring  it  shot  up  its  barbed  green  swords, 

Secure  'neath  the  myrtle's  shade. 

'Mid  a  carpet  of  softest  maiden-hair 

Its  glossy  young  palm-leaves  grew 
So  strong,  that  they  pitied  the  tender  fronds 

Which  bent  as  each  zephyr  blew ; 

Till  it  waxed  at  last  a  goodly  plant, 

And  its  cordial  fruit  did  bear ; 
With  a  prickly  kiss  it  wooed  the  brake 

That  waved  near  its  rocky  lair. 

Then  its  stems  grew  mossy  and  bulbous  with  age 

Till  one  day  in  its  moist,  warm  nest 
A  bird's-nest  fern  germ  there  fell,  and  struck 

Deep  roots  in  its  pithy  breast. 

And  the  parasite  fed  upon  its  heart, 

Encurling  its  broad  rich  leaves. 
Till  the  vivid  wealth  of  shining  green 

Eclipsed  the  dark  zamia  sheaves. 

And  a  creeping  fern  that  from  earth  had  gazed 

With  love  on  the  bird's-nest's  face, 
Crept  up  and  hung  out  its  waving  fronds 

All  pendent  with  drooping  grace. 

And  altogether  they  dwelt,  together  twined, 

And  in  twofold  beauty  grew ; 
But  the  buddawong  loved  not  the  close  embrace. 

Which  its  own  life-blood  outdrew. 


40  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

So  it  languished  and  pined,  and  was  nigh  to  death. 

In  the  gully's  silence  deep, 
And  the  bell-bird  tinkled  its  passing  knell, 

While  the  pitying  myrtles  weep. 

But  ere  the  last  breath  there  came  a  sound, 

Rarely  heard  in  the  sheltered  glen. 
The  gentle  treble  and  deep-toned  bass 

Of  the  voices  of  women  and  men. 

Close,  closer,  into  the  buddawong's  home 

The  steps  of  the  stranger  drew  ; 
They  have  reached  it  now,  and  they  pause  with  delight 

As  the  bright  fern  glory  they  view. 

As  it  hears  their  tunes  of  admiring  glee 

E'en  the  dying  zamia  thrills 
With  joy  that  its  stem  should  the  beauty  bear 

That  with  pleasure  each  mortal  fills. 

"  We  will  bear  it  home."     What  mean  those  words  1 

0  horror !  a  crashing  sound, 
Its  last,  last  palms  are  cut  away, 

And  there  aches  a  bleeding  Avound. 

Yet  the  parasite  stands  untouched  and  bold 

With  its  loving  creeper-friend. 
While  now  at  the  buddawong's  root  sharp  strokes 

Its  trunk  from  the  earth  doth  rend. 

And  the  poor  poor  palm  has  died  indeed ; 

But  little  the  strangers  care  ; 
"  There  arc  zamias  in  plenty  more,"  they  say, 

"  But  the  crown  is  a  beauty  rare." 


''AUSTRALIE."  41 

A  martyr  unto  a  vampire  fern, 

For  the  sake  of  its  parasite  now. 
The  buddawong's  trunk  they  carry  aAvay 

In  a  cherished  home-garden  to  grow. 

There  the  chiklren  watch  it  with  eager  eyes, 
While  the  mother  aye  tends  it  with  care, 

And  of  human  life  and  of  human  joy 
A  daily  part  it  will  bear. 

What  stories  that  child  of  the  glen  could  tell ! 

Ere  many  long  years  have  gone, 
The  green  youth-fronds  will  o'ergrow  the  old, 

And  the  new  of  the  aged  be  born ; 

While  the  poor  old  stem  is  almost  forgot 

In  the  life  that  from  out  it  springs, 
Though  its  perishing  fibre  yields  the  food 

That  such  wealth  of  verdure  brings. 

But  grieve  not  for  this.     'Tis  God's  own  way 

That  the  future  the  present  destroy, 
That  the  gone-by  should  nourish  fresh  leaves  of  hope, 

And  the  dead  past  should  blossom  in  joy. 

And  the  tree  that  half-fruitless  has  died  in  its  prime, 

To  nourish  a  fairer  blade, 
Has  fulfilled  its  end  in  the  beauty  it  adds 

To  the  world  by  the  Joy-God  made. 


42  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


"AITSTRALTS." 

[A  nom-de-plume  of  Patrick  Moloney,  a  well-known  Melbourne 
doctor.  His  "  Sonnets^  Ad  Innuptam  "  were  published  at 
intervals  in  the  Australasian,  under  the  signature  of  "Aus- 
tralis,"  and  republished  all  together  under  his  own  name 
in  An  Easter  Omelette,  an  annual  edited  by  Patchett  Martin.] 

SONNETS— AD  INNUPTAM. 

I  MAKE  not  my  division  of  the  hours 

By  dials,  clocks,  or  waking  birds'  acclaim, 
Nor  measure  seasons  by  the  reigning  flowers, 

The  spring's  green  glories,  or  the  autumn's  flame ; 
To  me  thy  absence  winter  is,  and  night. 

Thy  presence  spring,  and  the  meridian  day. 
From  thee  I  draw  my  darkness  and  my  light, 

Now  swart  eclipse,  now  more  than  heavenly  ray. 
Thy  coming  warmeth  all  my  soul  like  fire. 

And  through  my  heart-strings  melodies  do  run, 
As  poets  fabled  the  Memnouian  lyre 

Hymned  acclamation  to  the  rising  sun. 
IMy  heart  hums  music  in  thy  influence  set, 
So  winds  put  harps  iEolian  on  the  fret. 

The  rude  rebuff's  of  bay-besieging  winds 

But  make  the  anchored  ships  towards  them  turn, 
So  thy  unkindness  unto  me  but  finds 

My  love  towards  thee  with  keener  ardour  burn ; 
As  myrrh  incised  bleeds  odoriferous  gum, 

I  am  become  a  poet  through  my  wrong. 
For  through  the  sad-mouthed  heart-wounds  in  me  come 

These  earthly  echoes  of  celestial  song. 
My  thoughts  as  birds  make  flutter  in  my  heart, 

Poor  muffled  choristers  !  whose  sad  refrain 


'"AUSTRALIS."  43 

Gives  sorrow  sleep,  and  bids  tliat  woe  depart 

Whose  heavy  burthen  weighs  upon  my  strain. 
Imprisoned  larks  pipe  sweeter  than  when  free, 
And  I,  enslaved,  have  learnt  to  sing  for  thee. 

Thy  throne  is  ringed  by  amorous  cavaliers, 

And  all  the  air  is  heavy  with  the  sound 
Of  tiptoe  compliment,  whilst  anxious  fears 

Strike  dumb  the  lesser  satellites  around. 
One  clasps  thy  hand,  another  squires  thy  chair. 

Some  bask  in  light  shed  from  the  eyes  of  tliee, 
Some  taste  the  perfumes  shaken  from  thy  hair. 

Some  Avatch  afar  their  Avorshipped  deity. 
All  have  their  orbits,  and  due  distance  keep, 

As  round  the  sun  concentric  planets  move ; 
Smiles  light  yon  lord,  whilst  I,  at  distance,  weep 

In  the  sad  twilight  of  uncertain  love. 
'Thwart  thee,  my  sun,  how  many  a  mincer  slips, 
"Whose  constant  transits  make  for  me  eclipse. 

Know  that  the  age  of  Pyrrha  is  long  passed. 

And  though  thy  form  is  eternised  in  stone, 
The  sculptor's  doings  cannot  Time  outlast, 

Nor  beauty  live  save  but  in  blood  and  bone ; 
Though  new  Pygmalions  should  again  arise 

Idolatrous  of  images  like  thee. 
Time  the  iconoclast  e'en  stone  destroys. 

As  steadfast  rocks  are  splintered  by  the  sea. 
Though  shouldst  indeed  a  hamadryad  be, 

Inhabiting  some  knotted  oak  alone. 
And  so  revive  the  worship  of  the  Tree 

"Which,  by  succession,  outlives  barren  stone. 
Though  thus  transformed  still  worshippers  would  woo, 
As  Daphne-laurels  poets  yet  pursue. 


44  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Why  dost  thou  like  a  Eoman  vestal  make 

The  whole  long  year  unmarriageable  May, 
And,  like  the  phoenix,  no  companion  take 

To  share  the  wasteful  burthen  of  decay  1 
See  this  rich  climate,  where  the  airs  that  blow 

Are  heavenly  suspirings,  and  the  skies 
Steep  day  from  head  to  heel  in  summer  glow, 

And  moons  make  mellow  mornings  as  they  rise ; 
As  brides  white-veiled  that  come  to  marry  earth, 

Now  each  mist-morning  sweet  July  attires, 
Now  moon-night  mists  are  not  of  earthly  birth, 

But  silver  smoke  blown  down  from  heavenly  fires. 
Skies  kiss  the  earth,  clouds  join  the  land  and  sea, 
All  Nature  marries,  only  thou  art  free. 

0  what  an  eve  was  that  which  ushered  in 

The  night  that  crowned  the  wish  I  cherished  long  ! 
Heaven's  curtains  oped  to  see  the  night  begin, 

And  infant  winds  broke  lightly  into  song ; 
Methought  the  hours  in  softly  swelling  sound 

Wailed  funeral  dirges  for  the  dying  light ; 

1  seemed  to  stand  upon  a  neutral  ground, 

Between  the  confines  of  the  day  and  night ; 
For  o'er  the  east  Night  stretched  her  sable  rod, 

And  ranked  her  stars  in  glittering  array. 
While  in  the  west  the  golden  twilight  trod 

With  crimson  sandals  on  the  verge  of  day. 
Bright  bars  of  cloud  formed  in  the  glowing  even 
A  Jacob-ladder  joining  earth  and  heaven. 

0  sweet  Queen-city  of  the  golden  South, 
Piercing  the  evening  with  thy  starlit  spires. 

Thou  wert  a  witness  when  I  kissed  the  mouth 
Of  her  whose  eyes  outblazed  the  skiey  fires. 


L.  AVIS.  45 

I  saw  the  parallels  of  thy  long  streets 

"With  lamps  like  angels  shining  all  a-row, 
"\^^lile  overhead  the  empyrean  seats 

Of  gods  ■were  steeped  in  paradisic  glow. 
The  Pleiades  with  rarer  fires  were  tipt, 

Hesper  sat  throned  upon  his  jewelled  chair, 
The  belted  giant's  triple  stars  were  dipt 

In  all  the  splendour  of  Olympian  air. 
On  high  to  bless,  the  Southern  Cross  did  shine, 
Like  that  which  blazed  o'er  conquering  Constantine. 


L.  AVIS. 

[A  nom-de-phime  of  C.  Watkius,  living  in  the  province  of  Otago, 
New  Zealand.] 

O  TE-KAPUKA. 
(the    broadleaves.) 

In  a  quiet  spot  just  near  the  sea  these  old  Kapukas  stand, 
The  Rangiteras  of  the  bush,  the  princes  of  the  land ; 
The  Pakeha  axe  Avas  still  unknown — would  they  had 

never  met ! — 
The  "  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents  "  was  not  accomplished 

yet. 

These  fathers  of  the  native  bi:sh  threw  up  their  giant  arms 
In  living  chains  of  many  vines,   firm  bondage  in  their 

charms. 
No  mortal  fingers  ever  made  such  lovely  bonds  as  they — 
Green  and  pale  gold,  and  trembling  white,  in  a  thousand 

links  they  lay. 

While  birds  of  song  and  colour  came  to  them  day  and 

night, 
A  trinity  of  nature  kept  them  always  fair  and  bright ; 


46  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Nature  was  queen  and  governess  in  the  land  of  greenstone 

then, 
And  spoke  a  truer  language  in  fewer  words  of  men. 

The  Pakeha  has  changed  all  that — he  has  justified  the 

name — 
A  type  of  mere  destructiveness,  with  neither  sense  nor 

shame ; 
The  triple  grace  of  mighty  strength,  of  beauty  and  sweet 

song 
Has  crowned  the   old  Kapukas,  though  now   they  suffer 

wrong. 

Crippled  and  shorn  and  many  dead,  their  vines  all  rust 

away. 
In  dead  and  dying  thousands  upon  the  ground  they  lay  ; 
One  feels  a  great  and  keen  regret — one   who   has   ever 

known 
The  ancient  glories  of  the  bush  when  its   life  was  all 

its  own. 


AETHUR  J.  BAKER. 

[After  suffering  every  kind  of  catastroplie,  by  flood  and  field,  in  the 
Old  World  and  the  New,  in  i860  organised  the  Adelaide  Fire 
Brigade.  Well  known  in  the  hunting-field  in  South  Australia  ; 
has  published  a  slim  volume  of  reminiscences  and  poems.] 

IF  WE  SHOULD  MEET. 

If  we  should  meet — God  grant  we  may  ! — 

If  we  should  meet  again, 
As  flowerets  kissed  by  summer  ray 

Are  sweeter  after  rain, 
Absence  shall  make  our  joy  more  sweet, 
If  we  should  meet — when  we  shall  meet. 


ALEXANDER   ]V.  BATHGATE.  47 

The  Avind  blows  chill,  and  time  flies  fast, 

As  in  the  days  of  yore  ; 
0  !  would  the  weary  hours  were  past, 

That  we  could  meet  once  more  ! 
0  time  !  haste  on  with  swift-winged  feet, 
Till  we  shall  meet,  till  we  shall  meet. 

But  should  bygone  weeks  have  made 

Your  heart  or  mine  more  cold, 
If  from  our  memory  e'er  could  fade 

The  years  of  bliss  untold, 
Should  Love's  young  pulse  e'er  cease  to  beat, 
God  grant  that  we  may  never  meet ! 

Rather  be  it  our  last  embrace, 

Better  for  e'er  to  part. 
Than  meet  together  face  to  face ; 

And  not  meet  heart  to  heart. 
Xay,  rather  die  than  think,  my  sweet, 
That  thus  we  two  could  ever  meet. 


ALEXANDER  W.  BATHGATE. 

[A  solicitor  at  Dunediii,  New  Zealand.  Has  not  yet  published  a 
volume,  but  has  contributed  many  poems  of  mark  to  New 
Zealand  journals.] 

MAUNGATUA. 

(The  name  of  a  range  of  mountains  overlooking  the  Taieri  plain, 
near  Dunedin,  Otago,  New  Zealand.  It  means  "  the  range  (inaunya) 
of  the  spirit "  {atua).     The  sound  of  the  g  in  Maori  is  soft.) 

The  spirits'  mountain,  such  the  name 

The  early  Maori  gave  : 

"Where's  his  forgotten  grave  ? 
We  know  not ;  but  thou'rt  still  the  same 

Gloomy  and  dread  Maungatua. 


48  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Thou  art  tlie  spirits'  mountain  still, 
Though  aye  thou  dost  not  frown, 
But  on  the  plain  look'st  down, 

Which  now  the  white-browed  ploughmen  till, 
With  changeful  face,  Maungatua. 

Thou  hast  for  us  lost  half  thy  gloom, 

For  we  can  see  thee  smile, 

And  pleasant  look  awhile, 
When  summer's  sun  makes  flowerets  bloom, 

And  lights  thy  brow,  Maungatua. 

And  when  the  winter's  southern  wind, 
With  many  a  keen-toothed  blast. 
Has  snow  upon  thee  cast, 

Thy  hoary  head  proud  o'er  thy  kind 
Thou  boldest  high,  Maungatua. 

Thine  aspect  ever  seems  to  chauge, 
As  when,  on  breezy  day, 
The  cloud-shades  o'er  thee  play 

And  fly  along  thy  lofty  range  ; 

Yet  thou'rt  the  same,  Maungatua. 

The  spirit  that  in  Nature  lives, 
And  speaks  to  him  who  hears. 
Arrayed  in  strength  appears, 

And  to  thy  massive  mountain  gives 
Thy  spirit-name,  Maungatua. 


ALEXANDER   W.  BATHGATE.  ^9 


THE  CLEMATIS. 

Fair  crown  of  stars  of  purest  ray, 

Hung  aloft  on  mapau-tree, 
What  floral  beauties  ye  display, 

Stars  of  snowy  purity  ! 
Around  the  dark-leaved  mapau's  head 
Unsullied  garlands  ye  have  spread. 

Concealed  were  all  your  beauties  fair 
'E^eath  the  dark  umbrageous  shade 

But  still  the  loftiest  S2:)ray  to  gain 
Your  weak  stem  its  efforts  made, 

Now,  every  obstacle  o'ercome. 

You  smile  out  from  your  leafy  home. 

That  home  secure,  'mid  sombre  leaves 
Yielded  by  your  stalwart  spouse, 

Helps  you  to  show  your  fairy  crown ; 
Decorates  his  dusky  boughs  : 

His  strength,  your  beauty,  both  unite 

And  form  a  picture  to  delight. 

Fair  flower,  methinks  you  do  afford 

Emblem  of  a  perfect  wife : 
Whose  work  is  hidden  from  the  world, 

Till,  perchance,  her  husband's  life 
Is  by  her  influence  beautified ; 
And  this  by  others  is  descried. 


50  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

ON  HEARING  A   YELLOWHAMMER  SING 
NEAR  DUN  EDI  N. 

List  !  to  that  pretty  little  bird, 
Singing  on  yonder  bush  of  thorn  ; 

Its  plaintive  notes  I  have  not  heard, 
Save  in  the  land  where  I  was  born. 

Full  oft  in  boyhood's  sunny  days 
I've  listened  to  its  short  sweet  song, 

When  wandering  o'er  the  whinny  braes 
Or  briery  knowes,  the  whole  day  long. 

How  gleefully  we  used  to  mock 
The  yellow  yorlin's  simple  lay ; 

"With  eager  hands  pull  back  the  dock 
That  hid  its  nest  of  hair  and  hay  ! 

Gone  is  the  friend  with  whom  I  played, 
In  those  my  boyhood's  happy  hours ; 

Not  long  from  him  Death's  hand  was  stayed : 
He  gained  not  his  full  manhood's  powers. 

When  but  a  stripling,  to  the  plough 
He  set  his  hand  right  manfully ; 

Though  short  his  time  for  work,  I  trow. 
There's  few  who  more  have  done  than  he. 

With  zeal,  for  sake  of  Master  loved, 
He  strove  to  aid  his  fellow-men : 

The  task  too  heavy  for  him  proved — 
How  soon  we'd  part  I  thought  not  then. 

Here  in  this  sunny  Southern  land, 

In  this  bird's  song  there's  something  sad ; 

Or,  is't  that,  led  by  memory's  hand, 
I  mourn  him  lost  when  vet  a  lad? 


ALEXANDER   W.  BATHGATE.  51 

Yes,  yellow  yorlin,  this  is  all 

Thy  simple  song  has  done  for  me  ; 
Not  these  sad  thoughts  rose  at  thy  call, 

But  thoughts  of  boyhood,  full  of  glee. 

There's  no  more  sadness  in  thy  note 
Than  in  the  song  my  lost  friend  sings, 

Where  sounds  of  heavenly  music  float 
Around  the  throne  of  King  of  kings. 

Sing  on,  then,  little  yellow  bird, 

Though  thou,  like  us,  art  stranger  here, 

To  those  by  whom  thy  song  is  heard 
Thou'It  oft  recall  their  boyhood  dear. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SEASON. 

I. 

A  Song  of  Spring. 

Bird  in  tliy  mossy  nest 

Cosily  hid. 
Bird  in  thy  mossy  nest 

Young  leaves  amid  ; 

Nigh  is  thy  tuneful  mate, 
Singing  with  glee ; 

Hopeful  thy  tuneful  mate, 
Hope  gladdens  thee  : 

Hope  that  from  speckled  oggs 
Fledglings  will  grow ; 

Brood  o'er  the  speckled  eggs- 
Soon  time  Avill  show. 


52  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Fearless  of  coming  storm, 
List  how  thy  mate 

Sings  without  fear  of  storm, 
With  joy  elate. 

Why,  then,  do  men  alone 
Fear  coming  ill ; 

Only  are  men  alone 

Dread-haunted  still  1 

Evil  may  never  come  ! 

Whence  cometh  fear  ? 
The  present  is  gladsome, 

Be  of  sood  cheer. 


II. 

A  Song  of  Summer. 

Bird  in  the  leafy  shade, 

Quiet  at  rest, 
Screened  by  the  leafy  shade, 

Patient  and  blest ; 

Calm  sleeps  the  summer  noon 
Kound  thy  retreat ; 

Hot  glares  the  summer  noon, 
Shadow  is  sweet. 

Content  in  thy  shady  bower 
Wait  the  cool  breeze  ; 

Then  from  thy  shady  bower 
Flit  throucfh  the  trees. 


ALEXANDER   W.  BATHGATE.  53 

In  the  cool  eventide 

Joyfully  sing ; 
The  winds  at  eventide 

Fun  with  thy  wing. 

Man  is  not  quite  content 

E'en  when  most  blest. 
"Why  is  he  not  content, 

Never  at  rest, 

Taking  with  calm  or  joy 

All  that  is  sent, 
Without  the  base  alloy 

Of  discontent  1 


III. 

A  Song  of  Autumk. 

Bird  'mid  the  golden  sheaves 

Taking  thy  share, 
Picking  from  ripened  sheaves 

Thy  evening  fare, 

Sure  with  no  thought  of  thee 
Sown  was  the  seed, 

Keaped  without  thought  of  thee 
Or  of  thy  need. 

Yet  from  another's  toil 
Thou  takest  the  gain. 

Fed  by  another's  toil, — 
Ilis  was  the  pain. 


54  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Eut  with  thy  mellow  song 
Cheered  is  his  heart ; 

Sing  then  thy  happy  song, 
Such  is  thy  part. 

Who  should  from  weary  toil 
Seek  to  be  free  1 

Fruit  from  thy  weary  toil 
Thou  may'st  not  see. 

Nought  but  thy  best  aye  do, 
Some  one  will  reap ; 

Strive  then  thy  best  to  do, 

Why  should'st  thou  weep? 


IV. 

A  SoxG  OF  Winter. 

Bird  on  the  leafless  bough. 
Summer  has  fled ; 

Bird  on  the  leafless  bough, 
Flowers  are  dead. 

Dead  too  thy  trilling  song, 
Dead  in  thy  grief ; 

Not  e'en  a  saddened  song 
Mourns  for  the  leaf. 

E'en  now  on  leafless  bough 
Swells  the  small  bud  ; 

Soon  all  the  leafy  bough 
Blossoms  shall  stud. 


''BETH."  55 

Then  'miJ  the  summer  leaves, 

Winter  forgot, 
Singing  'mid  summer  leaves. 

Thy  happy  lot ! 

Why  then,  poor  stricken  soul! 

Why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 
Thou  knowest,  smitten  soul ! 

Time  will  relieve. 

Ah  !  will  not  mem'ry  keep 

Sharp  grief  alive  ? 
Never  will  mem'ry  sleep, 

Howe'er  I  strive. 


"  BETH." 

[A  7wm-dc  plume  of  Mrs.  Caswell,  of  Nelson,  New  Zealand,  who 
died  in  Hobart,  Tasmania,  twenty  j-ears  ago.] 

BEAUTIFUL  STARS. 

Beautiful  stars,  through  the  hours  that  keep 

Your  watch  in  the  welkin  blue  and  deep. 

When  earth  lies  hushed  'neath  the  sceptre  of  sleep, 

When  the  young  and  fresh-hearted  smile  in  dreams, 
When  the  pillow  with  Fancy's  pictures  teems, 
And  only  the  wretched  lie  watching  your  beams. 

Handmaids  of  even,  so  cold  and  still. 

Ye  seem  Heaven's  chambers  with  silence  to  fill, 

And  clothe  with  sad  beauty  temple  and  hill. 

Are  ye  teardrops  the  angels  wept  o'er  the  sin 
That  was  done,  fair  arbours  of  Eden  within, 
AMien  Death  and  Sorrow  their  trophies  did  win  1 


56  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Beautiful  stars,  0  my  spirit  would  fain 
Know  the  regions  beyond  your  far  domain  ! 
Is  it  there  the  ransomed  triumphant  reign  ? 

Tell  us,  0  tell  us  your  paths  have  they  crossed, 
The  fair  and  the  gentle,  the  loved  and  the  lost, 
That  our  bosoms  here  cherished  and  guarded  the  most ! 

Did  they  touch  your  bright  rims  with  their  sky-beating 

feet? 
l^id  ye  list  to  the  Seraphs  come  forth  to  greet 
With  the  music  of  Paradise  holy  and  sweet? 

Vainly  we  ask  thee,  ah  !  vainly  we  pray ; 

To  the  ear  of  frail  mortals  no  word  will  ye  say, 

But  in  coldness  and  stillness  look  earthward  for  aye. 


H.  H.  ELACKHAM. 

[Of  Trevilla,  One  Tree  Hill,  South  Australia.] 
FORSAKEN  HOMES  AND  GRAVES. 

These  mountain  wilds  that  rest  so  still. 

These  woods  and  wastes  so  vast  and  deep, 
These  ravines  round  each  rocky  hill. 
Where  long-lost  cattle  roam  at  will 
Beneath  the  eagle's  ken  and  sweep  ! 

Far  from  the  settler's  haunts  are  found 

Eude  vestiges  of  life  and  death, 
Forsaken  home  and  burial-mound 
Of  those  whose  names  still  cling  around. 
To  circlinc;  wilderness  and  lieath. 


IL  H.  BLACKHAM.  57 

These  olden  Avails,  ■whose  ruins  low 

Are  met  in  many  a  lonely  ride, 
Deserted  hearths  whose  fires  did  glow 
With  horaeliglit  in  the  long  ago 

By  Ti-tree  flat  or  gully-side — 

Round  them  the  sheen  of  summer  day 

Falls  drearisome  and  desolate  ; 
Thin  shadow-lines  of  branches  stray 
O'er  waifs  of  childhood's  broken  play, 

Untrodden  path  and  fallen  gate. 

The  notes  of  wild  birds,  that  elsewhere 
Bring  tones  of  gladness,  seem  to  change 

To  coronachs  of  sadness  there, — 

The  curlew's  cry  upon  the  air 

Sounds  like  a  shriek  along  the  range. 

The  very  dreariness  seems  rife 

AVitli  low  and  stealthy  undertones, 

Footfall  and  voice  of  former  life, 

Wraith-presences  of  sire  and  wife 

And  children  cling  to  wood  and  stones. 

Some  woman's  hand  did  plant  and  train 
That  runner  by  the  shattered  door, 

Which  clambered  through  the  splintered  pane 

And  pallid  turneth  out  again, 
As  if  from  spectre  on  the  floor. 

Once  Life  o'er  Death  hath  made  its  moan  ; 

There  hath  been  sorrow  even  here  ; 
In  one  small  grave  with  weeds  o'ergrown 
A  child  sleeps  in  the  wild  alone, 

With  only  silence  crooning  near. 


58  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Here  the  night-zephyr,  passing,  wings 

At  midnight  to  that  she-oak  nigh, 
Plays,  harplike,  on  its  drooping  string?!, 
And  to  its  dreary  cadence  sings 
The  wildwood's  soothing  lullaby. 


ETCHINGS  ON  THE  AIR. 

[This  poem  reached  the  Editor  in  a  very  mutilated  condition, 
but  contained  expressions  so  fine,  that  he  has  ventured  to 
complete  it :  the  parts  in  italics  are  his.] 

There  are  valleys  deep  and  still. 

Far  among  the  mountains  lonely. 
Where  hird-song  and  tinkling  rill 

Wake  oppressive  silence  onlj"-, 
Save  ivhen  gusts  among  the  trees 

Toss  the  boughs  in  wild  commotion, 
Till  their  foliage  in  the  breeze 

Waves  like  billows  on  the  ocean. 

Forest  feai's  the  wanderer  greet 

Where  the  branches  chafe  together; 
Oft  a  sound  like  rustling  feet 

Treads  across  the  fern  and  heather ; 
Often,  through  the  darkness  tost, 

Wafts,  like  wails  and  bitter  sobbing. 
In  the  bushman  late  or  lost 

Set  the  wildered  pulses  throbbing. 

I  have  visions  pictured  fair 

Through  the  purple  twilight  glowing, 

Day-dream  etchings  on  the  air 
Of  the  unlived  future  showing; 


//.  H.  BLACKHAM.  59 

On  these  slopes  where  wattle-bloom 
Incense  sheds  from  censers  golden, 

Other  blossoms  shall  perfume 
Nature's  temples  grey  and  olden. 

Kound  the  pleasant  fiuwers  of  home, 

Here  the  wilding  bee  shall  hover, 
Bringing  back  where'er  we  roam 

Ho7ne-land  tJioughts  the  wide  world  over — 
Not  of  city  street  or  square, 

Not  of  Hall  for  lord  and  lady, 
But — 7)11/  etchings  on  the  air — 

Cottage-nook  and  garden  shady. 

Tones  of  Sabbath  bells  I  hear, 

Faint  and  far,  prophetic-ringing ; 
Hijmns  of  life  are  on  my  ear, 

Kest  and  labour,  sob  and  singing  : 
Ties  of  birth  shall  bind  and  twine 

Hearts  to  hills,  like  love  and  lover. 
Till  each  mountain's  sombre  line 

Sunny  hits  of  hor>ie  shall  cover. 

Plough  of  Nature  ! — hand  of  God  ! 

Fallow  deep  the  hills  eternal ! 
Bless  for  these  the  mountain  sod 

With  full  fruit  and  pasture  vernal ! 
Somewhere  in  the  hy-and-hy 

Sounds  of  distant  life  are  humming ; 
Tliey  are  neariny,  though  not  nigh. 

And  the  day  of  homes  is  coming. 


6o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

MKS.  J.  A.  BODE. 
[Born  Ettie  Ayliffe  of  South  Australia.  ] 

LUBRA. 

Ours  was  the  land,  all  ours,  mine  and  my  people's  :  the 

tribes, 
To  roam  at  will,  to  dwell,  to  hunt  and  to  fish  in, 
AVe  were  the  lords  of  the  soil,  the  inheritance  ancient 
Owned  by  our  fathers,  and  theirs,  who  handed  it  down 

to  their  children, 
Ours,  plenteous  game :  the  life  of  the  free  in  the  forest ; 
Happy  were  we  in  the  wild,  and  our  wurleys  builded  at 

pleasure. 
Joy,  we  could  call  it  at  will,  guest  of  the  careless  and 

simple  ; 
Joy  of  feasts  at  our  fires  when  the  tribes  in  corroborees 

mingled, 
Joy   of  the    rest   in    the   woods,    when    the    wild    birds 

screeched  through  our  dreaming  ; 
Simple  our  pleasures,  but  sweet,  and  care  had  no  word  in 

our  language. 
The  white  man,  he  makes  many  things  :  too  many ;  has 

care,  and  is  weary. 
Then  the  sun  rose,  and  he  set,  and  we  journeyed  to  east- 
ward, to  westward. 
Clothed  in  the  furs  of  our  spoils,  and  taking  no  thought 

of  the  future ; 
Want,  we  have  known  it  since  then ;  toil,  we  have  hated 

to  learn  it. 
Why  should  man  labour  and  sweat,  and  groan  out  his 

life  to  no  profit? 
Why  make   innum'rable  things,  when  his  wants  are  so 

few  and  so  simple  1 


MRS.  J.  A.  BODE.  6x 

Ours  was  to  live  and  enjoy ;  the  ininieas'rablc  raptures  of 

nature  ? 
Happy  Avere  we,  more  tlian  lie  who  builds,  makes  great 

things,  and  burdens. 
I,   then,   the   first  of   the    tribes :    I   with   opossum   fur 

round  me, 
I,  before  any,  beheld ;  looked  on  a  day  far  out  seaward ; 
Looked,  and  in  wonder  was  lost ;  for  there  I  saw  on  the 

big  water 
What  I  then  thought  a  white  bird,  bigger  than  all  things 

but  hills  are ; 
Bigger  than  wurleys,  than  trees ;  bigger  than  all  things 

but  mountains. 
I  was  afraid  very  much,  for  I  thought  the  bad  spirit  was 

coming  : 
I  was  the  first  who  beheld,  stood  on  the  hill  of  the  whir- 
whir  : 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  loomed,  sweeping  along  through  the 

water. 
Hardly  my   courage   I  kept  to   "Cooey"  aloud   to  my 

comrades  : 
There  we  were  gathered  in  fear,  and  knew  some  dread 

evil  awaited  : 
Little  we  thought  they  were  men,  who  drove  the  great 

white  canoe  shoreward. 
Nearer  and   near  it  came  :  I   covered   my  face,    and   in 

terror 
Cowered  to   earth,  and  around  me  cowered   my  terror- 
struck  people. 
Would  he  had  sunk   in  the   sea,   and   the  waters  gone 

foaming  above  him. 
Before  he  had    stepped   on   the   land  from   my  race   he 

Avrestcd ! 
Houses  and  farms  and  the  fields  of  his  tillage  our  hunting- 

trrounds  fill ; 


62  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The   game   has    slipped    from    the   way,    is    scant    and 

diminished ; 
We    have   no   country   to   roam,    to    dwell    therein   in 

abundance ; 
Stricken  are  we  as  the  game  that  the  hunter  has  trapped 

in  its  hiding. 
We  dare  not  to  kindle  our  fires,  to  camp  on  the  bounds  of 

.    his  pastures, 
See,    we  are   fading    away !    we    wither    and    pass   into 

shadow  ! 
Fading  away  from  the  earth,  hardly  a  remnant  remaining. 
Many  our  strong   men   for   fight   when   the   pluiid'rers 

swooped  down  upon  us. 
Even  the  scrublands  uncleared  we  scarcely  are  suffered 

to  rest  in, 
We,  the  possessors  from  first  of  this  country,  made  all  of 

us  black  men. 
He  is  the  eagle   whose  eye  ranges   afar,    and   through 

Heaven 
Wings  his  strong  flight ;  the  prey  sees,  and  is  swift  to 

devour  it ; 
He  is  the  dingo  that  prowls  and  lurks  all  night  through 

the  forest. 
Howls  to  the  moon  in  his  career,  for  he  scents  and  he 

ravins  for  carcasses. 
They  talk  of  their  God  and  His  law ;  we,  we  know  naught 

of  things  Christian, 
Yet  we  know  this  was  all  ours,  and  would  be  so  still  but 

for  white  men. 
If  we  had  owned  that  great  force  sufficient  to  conquer 

them  fighting, 
Then  we,  too,  might  understand  this  prate  of  the  justice  of 

Heaven. 
White  man  makes  sermons  and  books;  his   words  are 

subtle  and  scheming. 


MRS.  J.  A.  BODE.  C3 

The  thing  that  deliglits  him  to  do,  the  only  right  thing 

seems  it  ever. 
His  sons  are  as  sands  of  the  sea,  numberless,  countless  ; 

his  gun  smoke 
Blinds  my  dusk  warriors ;  their  spears  cannot  defend  from 

his  trespass. 
He  tells  us  account  shall  be  made  to  the  Great  Spirit  of 

the  hereafter : 
Says  that  one  Father  alike  watches  o'er  black  and  white 

children. 
What  shall  he  answer  when  called  to  account  ?    Shall  his 

cunning  defend  him 
"\^^len,  like  his  Cain,  he  is  bade  to  give  an  account  of  his 

brother  ? 
We,  the  despoiled,  we  decay  :  we  die  from  the  ruin  of  all 

things ; 
Dusky  our  skins,  but  we  feel ;  our  bosoms  are  sentient, 

can  suffer. 
What  shall  he  answer  when  asked  of  the  wrong  he  has 

wrought  on  the  helpless  ? 
No    sense    of  justice  restrains,  no    balance    made    equal 

arrests  him ; 
That  which  his  eye  hath  desired,  lo  !  he  makes  waste  to 

possess  it ; 
Thus  he  erases   us    out    for  his    pleasure,   his   gain,  his 

convenience : 
And  preaching  in  many  big  words,  he  says  that  his  God 

bade  him  do  it. 
Is  this  the  justice  of  Heaven,  the  law  and  the  right  with 

the  strongest  1 
His  eyes — they  look  two  ways ;  his  hands  arc  grasping 

at  spoil  and  are  greedy. 
Let  him  devour  as  the  dog  ;  eat  up  the  lamb  with  the  eagle  ; 
Profit,  and  wrest,  and  enjoy  ;  but  prate  not  of  God  and 

religion  ! 


64  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 


THOMAS  BRACKEN. 

[Of  Dunedin,  New  Zealand.  A  typical  colonist  of  the  old  colonial 
school.  Born  in  Ireland,  1843,  went  out  to  Victoria  in  1855- 
When  a  mere  boy,  apprenticed  himself  to  a  druggist — threw 
that  up  in  two  years  for  the  Back  Creek  Rush — has  been  by 
turns  digger,  storekeeper,  stockrider,  shearer,  bushman,  Member 
of  Parliament,  and  newspaper  proprietor — one  of  the  owners 
of  the  Evening  Herald,  Dunedin,  New  Zealand.  Began  litera- 
ture as  a  contributor  to  the  now  defunct  Australian  Journal; 
is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  poems — Behind  the  Tombs, 
and  other  Poems  (Melbourne,  Clarson  &  Massina,  187 1),  Flowers 
of  the  Freelands  (Melbourne,  George  E,oberts(jn,  1877)1  Lays 
of  the  3Iaori  and  Moa  (Sami'son  Low  &  Co.,  1884).  Is  also  a 
well-known  elocutionist  and  lecturer. — Epitomised  from  New 
Zealand  Men  of  Mar i:.] 

OLD  BENDIGO. 

Let  Foley  go  with  Redman  ;  mind  be  careful  of  the  steer ; 
Bring  Bob  and  Rambler  from  the  creek,  they'll  find  good 

picking  here. 
Just  fling  this  she-oak  on  the  fire ;  there,  catch  that  end, 

now  throw — 
This  minds  me  of  our  maiden  trip  to  dear  old  Bendigo. 

Old  Bendigo !  the  very  name  is  treasured  in  my  breast — 
Just  pass  the   billy   this   \tay,   Jack.     Not   boiled  yet ! 

Well,  I'm  blest 
If  that  there  wood  will  ever  burn  ;  this  ironbark  is  slow — 
You  knew  the  gully  of  that  name  on  dear  old  Bendigo. 

Oh  !  when  we  camped  upon  the  track — that  damper  must 

be  done — 
Around  the  blazing  log  at  night,  what  tough  old  yarns 

were  spun 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  6s 

By  Sydney  Ned,  and  Derwent  Bill;  and  !Munumbidgefl 

Joe! 
Where  are  they  now  ?     Ah  !  mate,  they'll  drive  no  more  to 

Bend  i  go. 

I  can't  help  laughing  when  I  think — old  mate,  just  pass 
a  chew — 

Of  that  'ere  time  when  Murphy's  team  got  bogged  at 
Carlsruhe. 

Big  Barney  Fagan  shouted — whilst  the  Avheels  were  bed- 
ding low — 

"  Faix,  boys,  there's  some  deep  sinking  on  the  road  to 
Bindigo  ! " 

Mount  jSIacedon  is  gazing  down  as  proudly  as  of  old, 
And  Alexander's  lofty  brow  looks  over  fields  of  gold ; 
They  never  shift — but  where  are  all  the  friends  we  used 

to  know 
On  Castlemaine  and  Forest  Creek  and  dear  old  Bendigo  • 

No  other  land  has  mustered  such  a  kingly  race  of  men 
As   that  brave  golden  legion   on   the   march  to   fortune 

then ; 
The    digger's    shirt    was    freedom's    badge ;    beneath    it 

honour's  glow 
Lit  up  a  generous,  manly  flame  on  dear  old  Bendigo. 

Old  mate  of  mine,  together  we  have  roughed  it  through 
the  bush 

For  twenty  years,  and  Time  begins  to  lay  his  frosting 
brush 

Upon  our  heads ;  but  in  our  hearts  the  flowers  of  friend- 
ship grow 

As  fresh  as  when  we  planted  them  on  dear  old  Bendigo. 

E 


66  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I  sigh  whene'er   I    think    upon — Jack,  pass  along    the 

grub — 
The  music  of  the  puddling-mill,  the  cradle,  and  the  tub; 
The  hurdy-gurdies,  German  bands,  and  minstrels  too — 

why,  blow 
It !  you've  upset  the  tea — on  dear  old  Bendigo. 

The  track  of  life  is  sometimes  smooth,  at  other  times  'tis 

rough ; 
But  we  must  take  it  as  it  comes — this  beef  is  rayther 

tough : — 
I  feel  a  spider  on  my  cheek — I've  caught  the  varmint! — no! 
"Why,  bless  me  !  if  it  ain't  a  tear  for  dear  old  Bendigo ! 


FROM  THE  WATERFALL. 

Falling,  falling, 

Streaming,  teeming, 
I  am  the  child  of  the  sun  and  the  snow ; 

Falling,  falling, 

Ocean  is  calling. 
Rolling  along  to  its  bosom  I  go 

A  white  virgin  up  on  the  hill-tops  was  dreaming, 

A  golden-haired  king  saw  the  couch  where  she  lay ; 
Ilcr  heart  melted  soon  when  his  bright  eye  was  beaming; 
She  gave  me  to  him,  but  I've  wandered  away. 
Gliding,  hiding, 
Springing,  singing, 
I  am  the  child  of  the  sun  and  the  snow  ; 
Falling,  falling, 
Ocean  is  calling, 
Rolling  along  to  its  bosom  I  go. 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  67 

I  am  the  offspring  of  brightness  and  purity, 
Of  chastity  cold,  and  of  passionate  love, 
"Whirling  along  to  the  depths  of  futurity, 

And  bearing  God's  messages  down  from  above 
Glancing,  dancing, 
Sweeping,  leaping, 
I  am  the  child  of  the  sun  and  the  suow ; 
Falling,  falling. 
Ocean  is  calling, 
Rolling  along  to  its  bosom  I  go. 


IN  THE  TEMPLE. 

Sabbath  bells  are  tolling,  tolling : 

"  Come  and  worship,  come  and  pray ; " 
Ocean's  mighty  voice  is  rolling 

Solemn  chants  from  far  away ; 
Rills  and  brooks  and  birds  are  singing 

Nature's  psalms  and  hymns  and  glees, 
And  the  morning  breeze  is  swinging 
Censers  on  the  orchard  trees. 

Little  churches,  little  steeples. 
Little  souls  and  little  hearts, 
Little  nations,  little  peoples, 
Actors  playing  little  parts ; 
After  all  we're  very  little. 
Very  little  after  all. 
In  the  Temple  of  Creation, 
Brothers,  we  are  very  small. 

In  the  Temple  of  Creation, 
Soaring  to  the  speckless  dome, 

Seek  our  souls  their  destination. 
Dreaming  of  a  future  home ; 


68  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

'Mongst  the  bright,  the  pure,  the  stainless, 
In  the  reahns  of  bliss  and  mirth, 

Ah  !  our  spirits  are  not  chainless. 
They  are  fettered  still  to  earth. 

Little  tricks  and  little  treasons. 
Little  hates  and  little  spites, 
Little  months  and  little  seasons, 
Little  days  and  little  nights ; 
After  all  we're  very  little, 
Very  little  after  all. 
In  the  Temple  of  Creation, 
Brothers,  we  are  very  small. 

Soul  and  mind,  and  sense  and  feeling. 
Watch,  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
Nature,  in  her  prime,  revealing 
All  her  vernal  treasures  now. 
From  his  throne,  old  Sol,  the  gilder. 

Greets  us  with  a  warm  caress, 

Worshipping  the  Temple's  Builder, 

We  can  feel  our  nothingness. 

Little  sorrows,  little  troubles. 
Little  griefs  and  little  joys, 
Little  castles,  little  bubbles. 
Little  towers  and  little  toys  ; 
After  all  we're  very  little, 
Very  little  after  all. 
In  the  Temple  of  Creation, 
Brothers,  Ave  are  very  small. 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  69 

GOOD-NIGHT  TO  BABY. 

Where  is  Babe  to-night  ? — I  miss  her. 
Where  is  little  Bright  Eyes  1  bless  her  ! 
Bend  above  her  cot  and  kiss  her, 
Say  "  Good-night "  to  Baby. 

Say  "  Good-night,"  though  she  be  sleeping. 
Listening  cherubs  will  be  peeping 
Through  God's  windows,  fondly  keeping 
Loving  watch  o'er  Baby. 

They  will  catch  the  words  with  pleasure, 
Floating  downward  through  the  azure  ; 
They  will  cluster  round  your  treasure, 
Whispering  them  to  Baby. 

They  will  tell  her  many  a  story 
Of  their  Golden  City's  glory — 
Wiser  than  her  grandsire  hoary, 
Happy  little  Baby ! 

Purer  sight  to  her  is  given. 
All  the  star-nailed  gates  are  riven. 
Opening  up  a  view  of  Heaven 
In  lier  dreams  to  Baby. 


NOT  UNDERSTOOD. 

Not  understood.     We  move  along  asunder, 
Our  paths  grow  wider  as  the  seasons  creep 

Along  the  years,  we  marvel  and  we  wonder 
Why  life  is  life,  and  then  we  fall  asleej), 
Kot  understood. 


70  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I^ot  understood.     We  gather  false  impressions, 
And  hug  them  closer  as  the  years  go  by, 

Till  virtues  often  seem  to  us  trangressions, 
And  thus  men  rise  and  fall,  and  live  and  die, 
Not  understood. 

Not  understood.     Poor  souls  with  stunted  vision 
Oft  measure  giants  by  their  narrow  gauge ; 

Tlie  poisoned  shafts  of  falsehood  and  derision 

Are  oft  impelled  'gainst  those  who  mould  the  age, 
Not  understood. 

Not  understood.     The  secret  springs  of  action, 
Which  lie  beneath  the  surface  and  the  show. 

Are  disregarded ;  with  self-satisfaction 

We  judge  our  neighbours,  and  they  often  go, 
Not  understood. 

Not  understood.     How  trifles  often  change  us  ! 

The  thoughtless  sentence  or  the  fancied  slight 
Destroy  long  years  of  friendship  and  estrange  us, 

And  on  our  souls  tliere  falls  a  freezing  blight : 
Not  understood. 

Not  understood.     How  many  breasts  are  aching 
For  lack  of  sympathy  !     Ah  !  day  by  day. 

How  many  cheerless,  lonely  hearts  are  breaking  ! 
How  many  noble  spirits  pass  away 
Not  understood ! 

0  God  !  tJiat  men  would  see  a  little  clearer, 
Or  judge  less  harshly  where  they  cannot  see  ! 

O  God  !  that  men  would  draw  a  little  nearer 
To  one  another  ! — they'd  be  nearer  Thee, 
And  understood. 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  71 


MOTHER'S  GRA  VE. 

Up  on  the  hill  where  beds  are  made 
Xarrow  and  deep  with  pick  and  spade  ; 
Up  on  the  hill  where  death-flowers  grow, 
Over  a  grave  a  child  bent  low, 

Picking  the  weeds  off  a  new-formed  plot ; 
Up  on  the  hill  on  a  Sabbath  morn, 
(Works  of  mercy  that  day  adorn), 

Guardian  spirits  around  the  spot. 

Under  the  sun  the  city  basked, 

The  sun  that  over  the  valley  smiled. 
"  Why  art  thou  here  alone  V  I  asked— 

"Why  art  thou  here  alone,  my  child?" 
Her  bosom  swelled  with  sorrow's  throbs, 

Which  burst  the  flood-gates  of  the  heart. 
I  watched  the  bright  drops,  born  of  sobs. 

Out  from  the  wells  of  her  sad  eyes  start. 
"  Why  art  thou  here,"  again  I  said, 
"  Weeping  over  this  lonely  bed  ?  " 
And  this  was  the  only  reply  she  gave, 
"O  sir,  I  am  weeding  my  mother's  grave." 

I  asked  no  more,  but  turned  away 

From  girl,  and  stone,  and  mound  of  clay ; 

I  asked  no  more,  for  that  sentence  told 

Of  lonely  hearts,  and  of  strangers  cold ; 

And  then  I  knelt  in  an  old  churchyard. 

Where  one  grim  elm-tree  stood  to  guard 

A  daisy  quilt  and  a  crumbling  stone. 

And  I  was  a  child,  alone,  alone; 

And  the  wild  wind  moaned  through  the  ruins  old, 

And  the  clouds  were  black  and  the  world  was  cold, 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  sadly  I  heard  the  weird  gusts  rave 

Through  the  crumbling  walls  near  my  mother's  grave. 

Up  on  the  hill,  wdiere  beds  are  made 
Narrow  and  deep  with  pick  and  spade ; 
Up  on  the  hill,  where  death-flowers  grow, 
Over  a  grave  a  child  bent  low. 

Picking  the  weeds  ofi^  a  new-formed  plot ; 
Up  on  the  hill,  on  a  Sabbath  morn, 
(Works  of  mercy  that  day  adorn), 

Guardian  spirits  around  the  spot. 


AT  SUNSET. 

Out  on  the  beach  when  night  was  creeping — 
Robed  in  shadows — across  the  dome 

We  watched  the  waves,  as,  shoreward  leaping, 
They  fringed  the  sand  with  streaks  of  foam. 

Ocean's  heart,  with  its  ceaseless  throbbing, 
Beat  'gainst  billows  that  rose  and  fell ; 

Sometimes  singing,  and  sometimes  sobbing, 
Sea-ghosts  came  on  each  foamy  swell, 

I  stood  dreaming  of  some  old  story, 
Picturing  forms  on  each  white  crest. 

Tranced  in  thought,  till  a  flash  of  glory 
Limned  the  skirts  of  the  distant  west. 

"  Look  ! "  you  cried,  and  we  gazed,  in  wonder, 
Over  the  deep  where  sea  and  sky 

]\Iet  and  kissed,  as  the  sun  danced  under 
Beams  of  gold  in  the  archway  high. 


JOHN  BRIGHT.  7S 

0  !  the  splendour  that  tipped  the  mountaius ! 

0  !  the  beauty  that  rimmed  the  lea  ! 
Streams  of  brilliants,  from  rainbow  fountains, 

Sparkling  fell  on  the  purple  sea. 

Calmness  stole  o'er  the  deep,  and  lowly 

AVliispers  floated  upon  the  breeze  : 
"  Hail  to  Thee,  Holy,  Holy,  Holy  ! 

Painted  of  shores  and  skies  and  seas  !  " 

Not  by  us  were  the  pure  words  spoken, 
Not  by  us  were  the  pure  words  said ; 

"We  were  mute  till  the  spell  was  broken. 
We  but  gazed  at  the  Heaven  ahead — 

Gazed,  and  worshipped,  and  prayed,  and  wondered 

If  that  glory  would  gild  the  way 
When  life's  sun  sets,  and  friends  are  sundered, 

And  spirits  'scape  from  their  shells  of  clay. 


JOHN  BEIGHT. 

[A  South  Australian  comrade  of  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon's,  an 
"  overlander  "  constantly  on  the  rove  :  when  last  heard  of,  was 
on  the  shores  of  Carpentaria.  Has  published  a  little  paper 
volume  of  poems  entitled  Wattle  Blossoms  and  Wild  Flowers 
Gathered  by  the  Way  (Crabb  &  Bretherton,  St.  Kilda,  Mel- 
bourne).] 

THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS— A  SONG* 

A  PLEASANT  land  is  the  land  of  dreams, 

At  the  back  of  the  sliining  air  ! 
It  hath  sunnier  skies  and  sheenicr  streams, 

And  gardens  than  Earth's  more  fair. 

*  This  poem  reached  the  editor  in  a  very  mutilated  condition — • 
tiie  parts  printed  in  itidics  are  his  own. 


74  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And,  oft  as  my  heart  feels  weary  and  sad, 

For  a  rest  I  wander  away 
To  the  realm  where  it  all  is  happy  and  glad, 

'Neath  the  light  of  an  endless  day. 

There  I  see  the  faces  I  knew  of  old, 

The  friends  that  were  true  and  kind ; 
And  we  meet  as  we  met  ere  our  hearts  grew  cold 

With  the  care  that  is  left  behind. 
For  there  is  no  sorrow  or  doubt  or  care. 

But  Hope,  like  a  sunrise,  gleams. 
And  shadows  come  not  between  us  there — ■ 

In  my  wonderful  land  of  dreams. 

You  may  ask  the  road,  but  I  cannot  tell. 

Though  oft  in  its  track  I  stray, 
And  my  spirit  knoweth  the  path  right  well, 

And  oft  doth  it  long  to  stay  : 
"But  it  lies  in  the  toomb  of  the  clouds  somewhere, 

And  in  sorrow  aye  nearer  seems ; — 
"When  my  soul  would  rest  from  trouble  and  care, 

It  flies  to  this  land  of  dreams. 


SIR  FREDERICK  NAPIER  BROOME. 

[The  present  Governor  of  West  Australia,  son  of  tlie  Rev.  R.  F. 
Broome,  Rector  of  Adderley,  Shropshire.  Born  in  Canada, 
1842,  emigrated  to  Canterbury,  New  Zealand,  in  1857.  After 
ten  years  in  New  Zealand  came  to  England,  and  then  became 
a  special  correspondent  of  the  Times  newspaper  for  five  years. 
He  has  been  a  contributor  in  prose  and  verse  to  the  Cornhill, 
MacmiUans  Magazine,  &c.,  and  has  published  two  volumes  of 
poems — Poems  from  New  Zealand  (Houlston  &  Wright,  1S86), 
and   The  Stranger  of  Seriphos,    1869.     He   was  appointed  in 


SIR  F.  N.  BROOME.  75 

February  1875  Colonial  Secretary  of  Natal,  and  in  February 
1878,  Colonial  Secretary  of  the  Mauritius,  after  which  he  re- 
ceived his  present  appointment.] 

A  TEMPLE  SERVICE. 

(Ordained  in  Israel  after  tue  Deliverance 
FROM  ;Moab.) 

Priests. 

The  days  were  drawn  towards  the  sun, 

Kissed,  every  one, 
By  lips  red-ripe  with  summer  sweet, 

From  brow  to  feet. 

Dawn's  cold  pale  forehead  with  the  black 

Night-hair  pushed  back, 
Flushed  feet  of  eve,  that  walk  the  west, 

Were  caught  and  pressed. 

Peoplk 

Yet  ere  the  months  had  failed  of  flower, 

Their  branch  of  time 
Grew  heavy  with  a  rij)eni>ig  hour, 

God's  plant  of  prime, 

More  precious  than  the  whitening  wheat 

Or  swollen  fig  ; 
Sweeter  than  palm  fruit  peeled  to  eat. 

Or  grapes  groivn  big. 

Priests. 

Made-music  of  the  harps  we  string. 

The  silver  ring 
Of  beaten  cymbals  which  we  raise 

On  feasting  days, 


76  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  on  the  lips  of  sweetest  singers, 
Between  the  fingers 

Of  those  that  pluck  at  silver  wires 
Of  writhen  lyres. 


People. 

A  psahn  upon  the  psalteries, 

On  shawms  a  song, 
Upon  the  horns  great  harmonies, 

Bloion  loud  and  long  ; 

A  toriting  for  the  scrolls  of  scribes, 

The  graven  gates 
That  tell  the  triumphs  of  the  tribes 

On  brazen  plates. 

Priests. 

Wherefore  the  heavy  hearts  and  sad 

Be  grown  all  glad, 
And  rainbow  light  in  eyes  yet  rimmed 

By  grief  that  dimmed. 

Wherefore  the  mouth  by  mourning  mute, 

The  feeble  foot, 
Hath  joy  in  it  as  meat  and  bread, 

Is  strong  of  tread. 


People. 

Ill  garden  ground  the  summer  burns, 
Not  yet  grown  old. 

And  from  the  corn  lohose  colour  tiirns 
From  green  to  gold  ; 


SIR  F.  N.  BROOME,  77- 

But  ]iarvt:st-men,  before  they  make 

The  sickle  sharp, 
Go  up  to  keep  the  days  sweet  sake 

With  heart  and  harp. 


Priests. 

It  falls  within  the  twofold  time : 

The  youngest  prime 
Of  fruit,  the  latest  looks  of  flowers, 

Are  on  its  hours. 

And  the  blossoms  sweet  through  loosening  leaves, 

And  early  sheaves. 
Green  gathered  from  the  growing  wheat, 

Are  offerings  meet. 


People. 

To  lift  up  the  slant  scale  of  sin. 

And  weigh  at  last 
IViih  righteous  recompense  cast  in 

Present  toith  p)ast, 

The  pleasant  patlis  beneath  our  fact 

Wn-e  broken  up  ; 
We  tasted,  through  the  foam  of  sioeet, 

A  bitter  cup. 

Priests. 

"  Because  your  hearts  are  waxen  dead," 

The  Lord  God  said, 
"  And  in  your  ears  My  name  sounds  cold, 

!My  name  of  old. 


78  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  I  lift  a  sword  upon  the  land ; 

A  heavy  hand 
Between  you  and  your  sins  falls  keen, 

To  scourge  you  clean." 


People. 

Was  it  so  sweet  from  God  to  hide 

In  garden  ways, 
The  women  large-lipped  and  long-eyed  ? 

What  ivas  their  face? 

Were  they  so  gracious  in  their  groves^ 

The  lords  of  stone, 
Or  loere  their  damsels  dear  loith  loves 

Beyond  our  oivn  ? 

Priests. 

The  Avell-graved  images  which  ye 

Were  pleased  to  see, 
Deenaing  gods,  clear  of  face  and  fair 

Of  form,  were  there ; 

Gods  gazed  upon  and  drawn  so  near, 
Who  could  not  hear, 

Were  they  as  He  unseen  and  far 
In  whom  Ave  are  ? 

People. 

The  wanton  toomen,  scorning  stealth, 

Their  lust  confessed, 
Spendtlirift  of  red  coin  and  white  wealth 

Of  mouth  a?id  breast ; 


SIR  F.  N.  BROOME.  79 

Soft  sin-flowers  leaving  jwison  pods 

For  bitter  birth, 
Ungirdled  girls  and  garden-gods. 

Were  they  well  worth  ? 


Priests. 

Yea,  Avliat  were  all  light-clotlien  charms, 
And  stretclied-out  arms, 

By  the  pure  hearts  from  out  you  failed, 
Your  virghas  veiled  ? 

The  flowery  rods  at  first  that  beat 

So  light  and  sweet, 
Their  flowers  fell  off  from  them  yet  fresh, 

Thorns  tore  the  flesh. 


People. 

"  Our  gods  are  great !  "  the  false  priest  said  ; 

"  For  their  fierce  joys 
The  fire  must  flow  about  the  head 

Of  girls  and  boys." 

Prone  ^neath  their  wo7na7i's  soft  queenhood 

Their  lords'  kingship 
Smote  off  the  silken  servitude 

With  bloody  whip. 

Priests. 

"  Have  ye  a  garland  for  your  headl" 

The  wise  God  said. 
**  Lo  !  here  a  fetter  for  your  feet, 

It  is  but  meet. 


8o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  For  strangers  ye  My  laws  forsake, 
Their  yokes  to  take  ; 

Think  ye  to  choose  the  light  and  small, 
Xor  wear  them  all  1 " 


People. 

Ottr  hosts  ii'ere  hrolcen  in  the  7cars, 

And,  faint  of  heart, 
Fled  home,  and  from  his  shut  house-doors 

None  durst  depart. 

Then  were  we  aliens  in  our  streets 

Ajid  fatho's'  fields, 
Dogs  to  be  glad  of  morsel  meats 

A  ?naster  yields. 

Priests. 

Their  captains  chose  their  slaves  at  will 

To  toil  and  tiU, 
And  princes  for  their  serving-men, 

By  five  and  ten. 

And  spoused  maidens  for  their  bed, 

Cast  out  unwed 
To  be  the  sport  of  lewd  women, 

And  mock  of  men. 


People. 

Ajid  so  the  time  went  lieavily 

For  years  eighteeti, 
And  God's  face,  which  we  sought  to  see, 

It  was  not  seen. 


SIR  F.  N.  BROOME.  8i 

7'he  seasons  moved  from  frost  to  flower, 

From  flower  to  fruit, 
But  all  the  echoes  of  their  power 

Were  lost  and  mute. 


Priests. 

But  He  who  sits  above  the  years 

He  told  our  tears  ; 
He  who  before  did  count  our  crime 

In  His  good  time, 

From  where  He  ruled,  ordained  a  deed. 

To  help  our  need, 
And  show  the  heathen  Israel    . 

"Was  yet  loved  well. 

People. 

Unto  their  King,  even  where  he  sat, 
Girt  round  with  sin, 

As  ltdih  a  garment,  foul  and  fat. 
Without,  tcithin. 

Tliere  in  his  huilded  pleasant  place. 
His  ioindowed  room., 

TJiat  curtained  out  the  summer  days. 
Was  sent  a  doom. 

Priests. 

A  secret  message  from  the  Lord, — 

Was  not  the  sword 
Of  swift  Ehud  the  pen  of  it  1 

The  scribe  was  fit. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

lie  wrote  it  where  it  miglit  be  road, 

Wrote  it  and  fled  ; 
We  kept  the  fords  and  slew  them,  till 

None  were  to  kill. 


People. 

A  day  amo7ig  tlie  days  is  thus 

A  feast ;  there  is 
A  man  of  all  the  tribes  o'er  us 

A  judge  for  this. 

The  day  with  service  comes  and  parts, 

And  sacrifice  ; 
Arid  in  his  hand  ai-e  all  oiir  hearts 

Held  sceptre-wise. 


WILLIAM  CARLETON,  Jun. 

[Author  of  The  Warden  of  Qalway,  a  metrical  tale  in  six  cantos, 
and  other  poems  (Melbourne :  Clarson,  Massina,  &  Co. ;  Sydney  : 

Gibbs,  Shallard,  &  Co,)] 


THE  SKIPPER'S  BRIDE. 

0  !  FAIR  was  the  face  of  his  promised  bride, 
As  she  stood  on  the  deck  by  the  skipper's  side ; 
But  tlie  bloom  on  her  cheek  decayed  and  died 
When  the  mariners,  lifting  the  anchor,  cried, 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 


WILLIAM  CARLETON,  J  UN.  83 

Then  her  lover,  the  skipper,  so  brave  and  bold, 
Smoothed  back  her  beautiful  tresses  of  gold, 
And  he  kissed  her  lips,  that  were  wan  and  cold, 
While  the  song  of  the  mariners  loudly  rolled  : 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  tlie  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 


And  he  took  one  tress  of  her  golden  hair. 
And  he  gave  her  a  golden  ring  to  wear, 
And  her  young  head  fell  on  his  bosom,  where 
It  lay  in  its  sorrow  and  beauty  rare. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

And  again  he  kissed  her  and  said  farewell. 
And  the  words  from  the  lips  of  the  skipper  fell 
On  the  ear  of  the  girl  like  the  sadding  knell, 
As  it  drops  at  eve  from  the  passing  bell. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

Then  she  went  ashore  at  the  lighthouse  pier. 
And  parted  from  him  whom  her  soul  held  dear ; 
And  she  watched  the  ship  o'er  the  waves  career. 
Till  it  faded  away  in  the  twilight  drear. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow. 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

And  months  went  past,  and  then  news  of  grief 
Was  brought  to  shore  that  the  "  Royal  Chief  " 
And  all  had  perished  without  relief. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow. 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 


84  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  we  stood  on  the  lighthouse  pier  that  night, 
And  the  skipper's  maiden  was  there  as  white 
As  the  crest  of  the  wave  in  the  moonbeams  bright, 
And  her  eyes  were  lit  with  a  strange  wild  light. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

And  while  we  stood  on  the  lighthouse  pier 
We  saw  the  lights  of  a  ship  draw  near. 
And  her  hull  was  holed  and  her  sails  hung  sear, 
And  we  heard  a  moan  like  a  ghostly  cheer. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

A  ghostly  cheer,  and  it  rose  again 
Like  the  bubbling  crying  of  drowning  men, 
And  we  saw  a  shadowy  crew,  and  then 
We  knew  that  they  were  not  living  men. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

And  the  ship  moved  on  till  she  touched  the  pier, 
And  her  hull  was  holed  and  her  sails  hung  sear ; 
'Twas  the  "  Royal  Chief,"  and  a  mighty  fear 
Whitened  the  face  of  each  person  near. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

And  when  we  looked  on  that  ghostly  crew, 
We  saw  those  there  whom  we  all  well  knew. 
And  white  were  their  faces  and  wet  with  dew, 
And  the  light  of  their  eyes  seemed  cold  and  blue. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 


WILLIAM  CARLETON,  JUN.  85 

And  fathers  and  mothers  and  sisters  fair 

Beheld  their  relatives  standing  there, 

And  saw  them  beckon ;  but  none  would  dare 

To  enter  the  spectral  vessel  there. 

"Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

Then  the  skipper  moved  through  the  shadowy  troop, 
And  he  took  his  place  on  the  vessel's  poop, 
And  he  spake  aloud  to  our  startled  group, 
And  the  tones  that  he  uttered  made  all  heads  droop. 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

Quoth  he,  "I  have  sailed  o'er  a  deep  dark  sea, 
Where  danger  and  death  sweep  wild  and  free ; 
Through  a  fog  and  a  mist  that  you  cannot  see, 
I  have  come  to  my  bride — will  she  come  to  me  ? " 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  aloft  and  alow." 

Then  spake  the  maid  :  "  O'er  the  deep  dark  sea, 
Where  danger  and  death  sweep  wild  and  free, 
I  will  sail  with  my  love,  and  its  waves  shall  be 
A  pillow  of  rest  for  him  and  for  me." 
"  Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  above  and  below." 

Then  the  skipper's  maiden  so  fair  and  white 

Flew  to  his  spirit  with  wild  delight ; 
And  the  ship  moved  off  and  faded  from  sight,    ~ 
While  we  heard  these  words  o'er  the  breeze  of  night : 
"Heave,  ho  !  though  the  winds  blow, 
The  sailor  must  labour  above  and  below." 


86  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


JENNINGS  CARMICHAEL. 

[Of  Glenhope,  Dalgety  Street,  St.  Kilda,  Victoria.  Tliree  of  the 
pieces  quoted  below  appeared  in  the  Australasian,  and  "Tom- 
boy Madge  "  in  the  Weekly  Times.  He  has  been  a  frequent 
contributor  to  the  leading  Australian  journals.] 

A    WREATH  FROM  ADA  ATS  GARDEN. 

Around  lie  the  limitless  acres  of  forests  Australian, 
Infinite  solitudes  scarcely  disturbed  by  a  sound, 

Only  the  keen,  tireless  tinklings  of  bell-birds,  leaf-hidden, 
Break  as  a  monotone  chord  on  a  silence  profound. 

Stately  and  tall,  with  but  rarely  a  varying  foliage, 

Range  the  bush  monarchs,  with  branches  just  rocked 
by  the  wind ; 
Low  at  their  feet  cluster  saplings  and  giant-leafed  tree- 
ferns. 
Anchored  in  mosses,  with  creepers  caressingly  twined. 

Rarely  the  sad,  sombre  leafage  is  brightened  with  colour, 
Save  by  the  white-starred  clematis  and  glory-pea  bine. 
Or  'gainst  the  branch-trellised  verge  of  the  long-stretching 
forest 
Dagger-leaved  lightwoods  and  gold-tufted  wattle-trees 
shine. 

Strewn  'mid  the  tawny  bush-grasses  where  dead  leaves  lie 
scattered. 
Myriads  of  daisies  and  faAvn-tinted  violets  blow. 
Green-hearted  orchids  upspring  from  the  maiden-ferned 
slopings. 
And  through  the  verdure  the  twin-creeks  in  harmony 
flow. 


JENNINGS  CARMICHAEL.  87 

Seen  through  a  clearing  of  bush  soft  with  velvety  verdure, 
The  plain's  fertile  acreage  lies  'neath  the  westering  sun  ; 
Down  to  the  flat  rolls  the  marsh- merging  fringe  of  the 
forest, 
And  red  cattle  graze  on  the  grass  of  the  wide  station- 
run. 

Vaulted  in  passionless  purity  glistens  the  heaven. 
Never  the  breath  of  a  cloud  on  its  measureless  blue, 

Deeper  the  purple  tints  glow  on  the  close-wooded  moun- 
tains, 
Finer  the  "  shadow  and  shine  "  blend  in  dreamiest  hue. 

These  are  the  days  when  the  soul  with  its  yearning  dis- 
quiet 

Can  for  a  moment  be  eased  of  the  burdening  pain. 
0  !  thus  to  roam  in  the  changeless  quiescence  of  forest 

Gives  for  a  season  relief  from  heart-sorrow  and  strain. 


TOMBOY  MADGE. 

O  FOR  a  swim  through  the  reedy  river, 

And  one  long  pull  with  the  boys  at  dawn  ! 
Only  a  ride  on  the  high-backed  Rover, 

And  one  tennis-round  on  the  grassy  lawn  ! 
Once  more  to  see  the  sun  on  the  wide  waves, 

And  feel  once  more  the  foam  at  my  feet ; 
Give  me  again  the  wind  in  the  sea-caves 

Rocking  the  weeds  on  the  "  Tomboy's  seat !  " 

Only  last  week,  when  the  sky  was  brightest, 

No  single  cloud  in  the  vaulted  blue, 
The  boys  and  I,  when  the  sea  was  calmest, 

Rowed  through  the  waves  in  tlie  "  Black-eyed  Sue." 


88  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Fred,  you  remember  the  great-eyed  fishes 
Shining  star-like  through  the  emerald  sea ; 

How  the  waves  foamed  with  their  gleaming  riches, 
Splendid  fun  for  the  boys  and  me. 

Is  it  a  week  since  we  forded  the  river 

(Low  and  clear  for  the  time  of  the  year), 
And  found  the  wattles  and  tall  red  clover, 

Scenting  the  air  from  far  and  near  ? 
Is  it  a  week  since  we  all  went  jumping 

From  the  bent  arm  of  the  creaking  gum  ? 
Who  would  have  thought  that  the  half-bent  stumpling 

Would  lay  the  Tomboy  crippled  and  dumb  1 

Fred,  were  you  frightened  when  I  lay  wailing. 

With  eyes  closed  away  from  the  dazzling  sun  ? 
As  in  a  dream  I  saw  your  face  paling 

Before  the  sky  grew  distant  and  dun. 
I  can't  remember  the  homeward  wending 

Through  the  dark  trees  and  the  long  spring  grass ; 
Nor  how  you  stopped  at  the  river's  bending 

And  bathed  my  face  in  the  stream  as  we  passed. 

I  woke  in  this  room,  where  the  blinds  were  darkened, 

And  saw  the  face  that  was  bent  o'er  mine ; 
And  there  was  a  voice  to  which  I  barkened — 

A  voice  that  rings  in  my  brain  like  a  chime. 
'*  She  will  linger  on  for  a  time,"  it  was  telling ; 

"  Years  may  pass  and  ten  seasons  turn ; 
But  never  again  will  these  feet,  weak  and  failing, 

Rise  to  walk  through  the  flowers  and  fern." 

"  Ten  seasons  turn  !  "     One  glad  month  of  spring-time, 

With  ferns  and  flowers  I  cannot  see, 
Will  make  me  long  for  the  heavenly  sunshine. 

Where  you  and  the  boys  may  come  to  me. 


JENNINGS  CARMICHAEL.  89 

How  can  I  live  under  walls  and  ceiling 

When  all  my  life  has  been  spent  in  the  breeze  1 

Whenever  the  bells  of  the  birds  are  pealing 

I  will  pine  and  long  for  their  nests  in  the  leaves. 

0  auntie,  dear,  draw  the  blinds  up  widely, 

Let  stream  the  sun  through  the  bow'ry  trees  ! 
0  !  see  the  clouds  on  the  deep  blue  gliding, 

And  watch  them  ride  and  sport  on  the  breeze. 
And,  Freddy  boy,  I  hold  your  hand  gently, 

AVith  its  boyish,  hard,  familiar  palm — 
The  hand  I  will  feel  in  the  far-off  country 

When  "  Tomboy  ^ladge  "  will  be  safe  from  harm. 

]May,  with  the  dove  eyes  gentle  and  shining. 

Come  nearer,  darling,  and  smooth  my  hair, 
And  tell  me  the  tale  from  the  deep  past  chiming 

The  saintly  mother  and  infant  fair. 
Not  long  ago  these  same  *'  Good  Tidings  " 

That  brightened  the  blue  of  yoi;r  loving  eyes 
Would  seem  to  me  but  as  wearisome  chidings, 

Heavy  as  clouds  in  autumnal  skies. 

But  now  I  must  lie  here  far  from  the  cool  wave, 

Far  from  the  sounds  and  the  scenes  I  love, 
With  nothing  before  but  pain — and  a  green  grave — 

And  nothing  to  seek  but  the  hope  from  above. 
No  grand  long  walks  through  the  dusk  at  evening. 

Or  long-drawn  swims  in  the  wind-tossed  wave  ; 
No  light  to  seek  but  the  one  that's  waning 

Down  the  dim  path  to  the  Tomboy's  grave. 

"  Ten  seasons  turn  "  will  have  seen  the  grasses 
High  and  green  near  the  sea-shelled  cave. 

And  the  dull  stonecrop  that  Fred  pulls  as  he  passes 
Will  have  twined  and  hidden  my  early  grave. 


go  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  boys,  when  they  swhig  on  the  blue-gums  bending, 
And  hear  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  ocean  roar, 

Will  sometimes  think  of  the  Tomboy's  ending, 
And  wait  for  her  voice  on  another  shore. 


THE  BUSHRANGERS. 

Hunted,  and  haunted,  and  hounded. 

Outlawed  from  human  kin, 
Bound  with  the  self-forged  fetters 

Of  a  long  career  of  sin. 
Hands  that  are  red  with  slaughter, 

Feet  that  are  sunk  in  crime — • 
A  harvest  of  tares  and  thistles 

For  the  pending  scythe  of  Time. 

Mate,  we  have  travelled  together, 

In  days  less  dark  than  now  ; 
In  the  hours  of  early  manhood, 

Ere  Cain's  brand  marked  each  brow. 
You  remember  the  life  on  the  station, 

When  the  shout  of  the  overseer 
Would  rouse  us  blithe  from  the  bracken. 

Hands  willing,  and  conscience  clear. 

The  tramp  to  the  diggings  was  later. 

Through  the  bush  to  "  Chase's  Ford  " — 
We'd  been  on  the  straight  to-day,  old  man, 

If  it  hadn't  proved  a  fraud. 
Good  Lord  !  that  week  through  the  forest, 

In  the  heat  and  the  fearful  dearth ; 
No  wonder  the  end  of  the  rush  left  Chase 

Swinging  quiet  'twixt  sky  and  earth. 


JENNINGS  CARMICHAEL.  91 

Perhaps  we'd  have  rallied  a  little 

If  we'd  missed  the  lengthened  drought, 
That,  and  the  diggings  together, 

Made  the  world  and  us  fall  out. 
'Twas  hard  to  find  the  culled  hoard  strewn 

In  dead  heaps  on  the  plain  : 
I  knew  the  losses  made  that  year 

Would  ne'er  he  gained  again. 

We  took  to  lawless  living,  Bill, 

When  honesty  proved  dear, 
Tliough  we  never  reckoned  on  reddened  hands 

At  the  start  of  our  career. 
Tom  Chase's  swing  on  the  wattle-bough 

Was  merely  a  just  repay  : 
But  the  fruits  of  that  fight  with  the  troopers 

IMust  be  looked  at  another  way. 

You  laugh  at  showing  tlie  feather  blanch 

After  years  of  ruthless  sin ; 
I  own  it's  late  to  look  to  my  feet. 

When  the  mire-depths  reach  my  chin. 
But  somehow  since  that  pistol-shot 

Life  hasn't  seemed  the  same ; 
Perhaps,  like  the  sinking  sun  we  watch, 

My  day  is  on  the  wane. 

Old  man,  come  nearer — by  my  faith  ! 

I'm  feeling  strangely  cold — 
These  qualms  of  useless  penitence 

I  never  felt  of  old. 
At  nights,  before  the  firelight's  glow, 

Dead  thoughts  my  conscience  flood. 
Though  hope  and  memory  alike 

Are  marred  by  hues  of  blood. 


92  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"Why  should  the  guileless  days  of  youth 

Come  swelling  mem'ry  now  1 
My  boyhood's  honour  mocking  keen 

This  aged  and  crime-worn  brow  1 
Mate,  you  may  scoff  to  see  me  down, 

With  head  and  spirits  low, 
But  chaflf  falls  on  unheeding  ears — 

Life's  current  flows  too  slow. 

Hark  !     There's  the  beat  of  hast'ning  hoofs  ! 

"  A  false  alarm,"  you  say. 
Bill,  after  all,  it's  little  odds 

If  the  end  does  come  that  way. 
I'd  give  a  lot  to  have  hands  pure 

From  the  blood  of  those  plucky  Jews ; 
That  acts  as  the  bridgeless  gulf  between 

The  old  and  a  new ■ 


Hunted,  and  haunted,  and  hounded, 

Outlawed  from  human  kin, 
Bound  with,  the  self-forged  fetters 

Of  a  long  career  of  sin. 
Hands  that  are  red  with  slaughter, 

Feet  that  are  sunk  in  crime — 
A  harvest  of  tares  and  thistles 

For  the  pending  scythe  of  Time. 


THE  FENNEL  IN  THE  WINE. 

Live  on,  0  heart,  for  the  night  is  long 
That  follows  the  day  called  life ; 

Oblivion  waits  in  the  even's  shade, 
After  the  noontide's  strife. 


JENNINGS  CARMICHAEL.  93 

0  weary  soul  in  travailing  pain, 

When  will  ye  cease  to  rave? 
What  in  the  end  is  the  sum  of  all  1 — 

A  cradle  and  a  grave  ! 

The  sunny  face  of  a  little  child 

Can  only  ripen  to  die  ; 
Yon  leaves  were  green  on  the  sun-seared  tree, 

That  the  autumn  breeze  blows  by. 
Birth  and  burial,  hand  in  hand, 

Pace  through  the  tracts  of  time ; 
And  funeral  dirges,  slow  and  sad, 

Blend  with  the  marriage  chime. 

0  Fate — so  hard  is  the  stern  design, 

Decreeing  our  being  so, 
That  the  tranquil  heart  of  to-day's  content 

Should  usher  to-morrow's  woe  ; 
That  flowers  and  sunlight,  joy  and  peace, 

Will  harbinger  sorrow's  gloom, 
And  love  and  hope  alike  will  meet 

The  juggernaut  of  doom  ! 

We  live  and  love,  while  time  blows  wide 

Affection's  wasted  leaves ; 
And  tare  and  thistle  too  are  found 

In  the  gathering  of  the  sheaves. 
Across  the  reapi^d  fields  of  life 

The  trembling  pilgrims  glean  ; 
And  only  scattered  ears  abound, 

Where  the  harvest  should  have  been. 

Friend  !  for  us  is  the  gloom  alone, 

The  barren  field  and  the  story 
Of  autumn  leaves  and  funeral  dirge. 

And  the  rose-bloom  stripped  of  glory  ! 


94  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Of  alien  hearts  and  divided  hands, 
Grey  hairs  instead  of  golden  ; 

A  dimming  film  on  the  face  of  all, 
As  of  everything  grown  olden  ! 

No  use  to  stretch  out  yearning  arms 

And  sigh  for  the  joys  withheld ; 
Why  pine  for  treasures  of  the  past, 

When  their  burial  is  knelled  1 
The  music  of  the  chord,  once  lost, 

Is  rarely  found  again  ; 
We  cannot  call  the  beauty  back 

Of  the  flower  bruised  by  the  rain. 

For  us  remains  the  ling'riiig  loss 

Of  a  lifetime  grown  Avith  weeds  ; 
The  broken  chord,  and  the  bruised  flower, 

And  the  scattered  harvest-seeds. 
The  naked  tree  and  the  empty  cruse, 

The  dust  of  the  apple's  core  ; 
Life's  pathos  of  complaining  pain, 

Vibrating  evermore  ! 

One  quiv'ring  sheath  in  a  grassy  plain 

Is  man's  epitome ; 
One  trembling  drop  in  the  shower  that  falls 

On  an  ever- changing  sea. 
Then  wherefore  weep  in  the  face  of  Fate, 

'Neath  the  cross  so  hard  to  bear  1 
For  the  peace  withheld  in  this  life  of  ours 

Avvaiteth  us  elsewhere. 


ETHEL  CASTILLA.  95 

ETHEL  CASTILLA. 

[Of  Kew,  Melbourne.] 

AN  AUSTRALIAN   GIRL. 

"  She's  pretty  to  walk  with, 
And  witty  to  talk  with, 
And  pleasant,  too,  to  think  on." 

— Sir  John  SucUing. 

She  has  a  beauty  of  her  own, 
A  beauty  of  a  paler  tone 

Than  English  belles. 
The  Southern  sun  and  Southern  air 
Have  kissed  her  cheeks  until  they  wear 
The  dainty  tints  that  oft  appear 

On  rosy  shells. 

Her  frank,  clear  eyes  bespeak  a  mind 
Old-world  traditions  fail  to  bind. 

She  is  not  shy 
Or  bold,  but  simply  self-possessed ; 
Her  independence  adds  a  zest 
Unto  her  speech,  her  piquant  jest, 

Her  quaint  reply. 

O'er  classic  volumes  she  will  pore 
With  joy  ;  and  some  scholastic  lore 

Will  often  gain. 
In  sports  she  bears  away  the  bell, 
Nor  under  music's  siren  spell 
To  dance  divinely,  flirt  as  well. 

Does  she  disdain. 


96  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER. 

[Born  at  Geelong,  Victoria,  1852  ;  is  a  journalist,  on  the  South 
Australian  Advertiser  and  on  the  Ha^isard  staff,  Adelaide. 
Has  published  a  volume,  A  Bush  ld;/ll,  and  other  Poems 
(E.  S.  Wigg,  Adelaide  ;  S.  Mullen,  Melbourne),  from  which 
our  quotations  have  been  made.] 

AT  DUSK. 

Hear  the  distance-like  tremulous  bells, 

Murmurs  of  melody  lingering  low, 

Floating  and  gathering  over  the  dells, 

Down  where  the  whispering  wattle-trees  grow. 

Is  it  the  ripple  of  rambling  rills 

Kissing  the  feet  of  the  dreamy  hills, 

Singing  a  measure  that  faintly  fills 

Forest  and  foreland  where  soft  winds  blow  ? 

Hear  the  strange  song  in  the  deepening  gloom 
Lulling  to  sleep  the  wearyful  day, 
Closing  the  eyes  of  bright  beauties  that  bloom, 
Crooning  to  those  that  are  passing  away. 
Is  it  the  sigh  of  the  evening  breeze 
Wafted  afar  from  beyond  the  seas 
Telling  its  love  to  the  lisping  trees, 
"Welcoming  night  with  a  gentle  lay  ? 

Hear  from  above,  in  tlie  dusky  air. 
Something  that  swells  in  an  undertone 
Grand  as  echo  from  choristers  rare 
Breathing  their  souls  in  some  beautiful  zone. 
Is  it  the  wonderful  symphony 
Struck  by  the  stars  in  their  sparkling  glee, 
Speeding  through  space  and  eternity 
On  to  the  end  in  the  mystic  unknown  1 


ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER.  97 

Standing  out  here  on  this  southerly  slope, 
What  is  this  music  that  comes  from  without  1 — 
Nature's  glad  message  of  infinite  hope 
Soothing  the  terrors  of  withering  doubt  ? 
Comrade,  I  know  not,  but  still  there  seems 
Something  disclosed  in  those  songful  dreams — 
Voices  of  comfort  through  starry  gleams, 
Puttin"  our  sorrows  and  fears  to  rout. 


IN  THE  CITY. 

0  YE  who  are  so  gay. 

Come  into  the  city  ; 
Soon  your  smiles  will  flee  away, 

And  leave  ye  pity  ! 
Ah !  here  is  one  with  eyes  all  dark, 

For  light  hath  flown  ; 
The  golden  sun,  the  light,  the  birds. 
Are  lost  to  him.     Speak  gentle  words. 

He  lives  by  these  alone. 
And  here  is  one  so  young  and  fair, 

With  tangled  tresses  ; 
She  sits  and  thinks,  but  thought  is  care  : 
A  great  sad  sob  starts  from  her  there, 

Where  she  transgresses. 
0  fathers,  brothers,  sorrow-heeding, 

Can  you  resist 
So  deeply  passionate  a  pleeding 

Through  tearful  mist  ? 
For  she  was  Avronged,  then  slipped  and  fell 

When  innocence  had  fled. 
0  !  thoughtless,  stay  and  hear  her  pray 

That  she  were  dead  ! 

G 


c8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Ah  !  ye  that  are  so  gay, 

Here  within  the  city, 
Win  her  from  sin  away, 

With  love  and  pity. 

And  here  is  one  so  grey  and  old, 

He  begs  a  penny  ; 
Lut  pass  him  by  not  stern  and  cold, 

The  poor  are  many. 
He  once  had  wealth  :  and  charity 

He  held  as  holy  : 
Misfortune  came.     He  asks  of  thee 

So  soft  and  slowly. 
Cease  thy  mirth  !  0  !  why  so  gay, 

Laughing  through  the  city, 
When  so  much  want  from  day  to  day 

Demands  thy  pity  1 

And  here  is  one,  a  babe  at  play 

In  dirt  enshrouded, 
His  lips  'midst  guilt — by  evil  ray 

His  young  life  clouded. 
From  haggard  hands  the  cup  he  drained 

Ere  he  could  speak  ; 
And  she,  his  mother,  long  sin-stained. 

And  bad,  and  worn,  and  weak. 
0  !  deep  true-hearted,  save  the  child 

(For  love  and  pity) 
Who  knows  not  God,  who  wanders  wild 

Within  so  gay  a  city. 
Yea,  save  the  children  ere  they  be 
All  grown  in  vile  maturity. 

Lost  and  perished. 
0  let  them  taste  the  puri'ty 

Of  being  cherished  ! 


ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER.  99 

Our  land  is  young  and  fair  and  free — 

0  !  Avoeful  pity 
That  there  should  be  one  misery 

To  stain  our  city  ! 
Ah  !  ye  who  wrapped  in  comforts  sit, 

Go  bless  again — 
For  wrong  is  strong  and  life  is  brief  : 
Then  fight  for  right  and  lighten  grief, 

And  lessen  sorrow's  bane. 
0  !  ye  who  are  so  gay 

In  the  merry  city, 
Soon  your  smiles  must  flee  away, 

And  leave  ye  pity  ! 


CUR  LEY. 

"  0  COME  round,  chaps — here  is  a  curious  moke : 

Sundowner  !  twig  each  weary  limb. 
"  Come  thirty  miles — nothing  to  eat — dead  broke  "- 

Yes,  that's  the  yarn  you'll  get  from  him. 
Say  now,  my  spark,  you  don't  look  very  spry ; 

You  want  a  job  1     Well,  that's  played  out, 
That  joke.     On  this  here  run  we're  pretty  fly — 

We  don't  state  plain  "  You  lie  !  " — we  doubt. 

You  needn't  don  such  simple  airs,  my  boy  ; 

Such  dodgings  ain't  no  good  with  us  ; 
Come,  own  the  fact  up  straight — you  shirk  employ, 

And  rather  skim  away  from  fuss  ; 
It  makes  your  head  ache,  eh,  this  dofhng  coats  ? 

The  thought  for  you  is  quite  enough. 
Of  course  we  ain't  all  sheep — there  must  be  goats. 

Oil,  ho !  you  shouldn't  take  the  huff ! 


loo  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  But  chaps,  just  gaze  !     He  acts  the  part  darned  well, 

You'd  think  him  just  about  to  drop — 
His  last  weak  Avalk  for  life — death  or  a  spell  " 

Here  broke  in  Super  Scotty  : — "  Stop 
Your  borak ;  givo  the  bloomin'  man  a  show  ; 

You  might  be  down  yourself  'fore  long ; 
A  pannikin  of  flour  would  pull  you  low, 

And  make  you  sing  another  song  !  " 

The  hardy  station  hands  were  grouped  at  dusk 

Around  the  hut,  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
From  blackened  clays  rose  softly  with  the  musk 

Of  forest  shrubs,     A  hearty  joke 
Excited  now  and  then  a  vigorous  laugh 

'Mong  sun-browned  bushmen  stretched  at  rest, 
Or  sudden  challenge  couched  in  cutting  "chafi'" 

Provoked  impromptu  feat  or  test. 

The  swagman  stood  with  shy,  pathetic  mien, 

And  stared  with  strange  appealing  eyes ; 
In  those  outlandish  parts  there  ne'er  was  seen 

So  sad  a  sight  to  wake  surprise. 
Such  fair  proportions,  weak  and  feebly  worn. 

Such  gentle  features  pinched  and  pale ; 
Such  thick  brown  curls,  unkempt  and  long  unshorn — 

A  manly  form  now  weak  and  frail. 

Through  all  his  joylessness,  though  thin  and  wan. 

With  many  a  dangling  shred  and  rag, 
There  lurked  a  touch  of  something  that  had  gone 

Ere  he  had  known  the  "  track  "  and  swag  ] 
And  something  still  more  pitiful  was  there — 

A  blindness  though  possessed  of  sight, 
Fair  features,  less  the  light  to  make  them  fair — ■ 

Or  darkness  overcloudincc  light. 


ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER.  lol 

Like  some  bright  land,  where  ever  joy  hath  been 

In  changeful  growth  and  beauty  rare, 
And  perfect  fruits,  with  fragrant  flow'rs  between, 

The  winds  of  promise  wafting  there  ; 
Wlien  fruitfulness  hath  faded  from  its  face 

And  only  barrenness  is  left — 
A  life  in  death — a  form  yet  lacking  grace, 

Of  warmth  and  feeling  all  bereft. 

True  pity  ever  prompts  the  hearts,  though  rude, 

Of  those  who  range  the  forests  wild  ; 
For,  nursed  in  Nature's  generous  solitude. 

They  catch  her  influence  undefiled 
T>y  unctuous  mode.     The  bushmen  gathered  round. 

Forgetting  sturdy  joke  and  jeer. 
Gruff  voices  fell  to  sympathetic  sound — 

Soft  liearts  make  harshness  sweet  appear  ! 

Then  Scotty,  leader  of  the  little  throng, 

Gave  welcome  to  the  weary  tramp,  ' 

iVnd  led  him  in,  and  doubted  "  "What  was  wrong  ?  " 

Surmised  he'd  "left  a  hungry  camp." 
But  to  all  queries  came  no  quick  reply 

Of  wakened  thought,  but  timid  looks ; 
And  thus  unasked  he  whispered  by-and-by, 

"Tliey  called  me  '  Curley  '  down  at  Cook's." 

"I'm  shot  if  Cooks  don't  treat  their  friends  d —  queer; 

Tliey're  not  much,  mate,  if  that's  their  style. 
"Well,  sit  you  down  and  make  your  wurlie  here — 

I  bet  you'll  spell  with  us  a  while. 
But — Cook?     Some  sugar-dealer  taught  a  run. 

And  hawked  amongst  the  hills  and  gums 
Ilis  scales  to  weigh  free  air  to  every  one  1 

Tiiank  God,  he's  not  around  these  slums  !  " 


.2  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

A  week  went  by  and  Curley  still  remained, 

And  no  one  seemed  to  wish  him  gone  ; 
His  way  was  meek  although  his  mind  had  waned— 

A  gleam  that  through  the  darkness  shone. 
So  he,  'midst  warmth  and  kindly  spoken  tones. 

Was  welcomed  gently  by  the  rest ; 
But  still  those  sense-robbed  eyes,  like  shining  stones, 

Struck  sorrow  into  every  breast. 

A  year  went  by,  and  every  one  had  placed 

A  light  load  on  the  blighted  life  ; 
If  kindness  could  have  from  the  past  erased 

That  grief,  sweet  joy  would  soon  be  rife. 
Through  all  the  homestead  strayed  the  stricken  one. 

Played  with  the  children  in  their  freaks, 
Or  gathered  wild  flowers  'neath  the  morning  sun. 

Or  crooned  along  the  lonely  creeks. 

And  so  wild  winter  brightened  into  spring ; 

Across  the  pools  swift  currents  rushed ; 
O'er  all  tlie  land  full  many  a  winsome  thing 

Sprang  budding  forth,  and  beauty  blushed 
From  east  to  west.     The  station  babes  with  joy 

Their  voices  gaily  raised  in  glee, 
And  laughter  rang  from  merry  girl  and  boy 

As  part  of  Nature's  minstrelsy. 

One  glorious  sunset  flooded  through  the  trees 

Like  some  kaleidoscopic  dream 
Of  light  and  shade  and  playing  harmonies. 

Enchanting  all  the  dashing  stream ; 
And,  lured  by  this  bright  dancing  colour-blink, 

The  shepherd's  prattling  child  was  led 
To  scream  delight  and  venture  on  the  brink 

Of  that  false  glowing  waterliead. 


ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER.  103 

One  moment — then  to  catch  the  fleeting  beams 

Fair  Lily  sprang,  and  sank  below 
The  gay  illusion  and  its  rippling  gleams, 

That  sparkled  unaware  of  woe ; 
But  Curley,  touched  by  some  quaint  thought, 

Rushed  laughing  to  the  baby's  cry ; 
And  ere  the  station  was  by  tears  distraught, 

Had  won  her  back  to  earth  and  sky. 

Eut  when  they  found  them  all  his  clustering  locks 

"Were  red  with  blood,  where  he  had  met 
The  hidden  juts  of  sharply  jagged  rocks. 

And  yet  he  owed  to  them  a  debt ; 
For  fever  seized  him,  and  for  days  he  lay 

Unconscious,  tho'  so  gently  nursed ; 
And  when  he  woke,  the  shepherd's  daughter  May 

In  vigil  grave  he  saw  the  first. 

But  had  he  caught  from  off  the  water's  face 

The  light  of  life — the  vital  gleam  1 — 
For  now  it  shone — his  form  regained  the  grace 

It  late  had  lost  in  that  dark  dream. 
Still  was  he  more  a  stranger  to  them  all, 

Amazed  in  flooding  memory — 
A  wondering  soul's  bewildered  madrigal 

Of  praise  and  joy  in  waking  free. 

"  Where  has  that  blooming  Curley  gone — d'ye  hear  ? 

He  found  his  sense — and  we  lost  him  : 
A  line  for  some  poetic  chap.     It's  queer 

How  some  young  folks  are  mighty  trim 
And  sensitive  when  they  get  use  of  wits. 

Why  didn't  he  continue  soft  ? 
That  rock's  to  blame — I'll  take  my  davey  it's 

l)arned  interfering  horns  are  neatly  doff't." 


I04  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Another  year  had  passed,  and  in  the  spring 

Along  the  winding  station-track 
Came  Curley,  brightly  changed  in  everything- 

N"o  ragged  bundle  on  his  back. 
Again  he  went  away — so  blithe  and  blest — 

But  not  alone,  for  gentle  May 
Now  shared  his  honours  and  heraldic  crest, 

And  love  beamed  o'er  them  day  by  day. 


MARCUS   CLARKE. 

[Com  at  Kensington,  1S47  ;  only  son  of  William  Hislop  Clarke, 
Barrister-at-Law,  Middle  Temjjle,  and  cousin  of  Major- 
General  Sir  Andrew  Clarke,  once  Surveyor-General  and  Chief 
Commissioner  Crown  Lands,  Victoria  ;  late  Inspector-General 
Fortifications,  England.  Educated  at  St.  Paul's.  Emigrated  to 
Victoria  about  his  seventeenth  year.  Eour  years  on  a  station 
in  Wimniera,  then  joined  Argus  staff.  First  literary  "hit," 
"  Peripatetic  Philosopher,"  in  Australasian — admirable  imita- 
tion of  "  Thackeray's  Round-about  Papers."  Assisted  to  found 
Colonial  Monthly ,  in  which  appeared  his  first  novel,  "LongOdds ;" 
clever  but  immature.  Same  year  (1868)  married  Marion  Dunn, 
actress,  daughter  of  John  Dunn,  comedian  ;  1872,  appointed 
Secretary  to  Trustees  of  Public  Library,  Melbourne  ;  afterwards 
Sub-Librarian.  His  Natural  Life,  Clarke's  mar/num  opus,  first 
published  in  a  Melbourne  journal,  republished  by  Bentley, 
remains  the  only  standard  Australian  work  of  fiction  written 
in  the  Colonies.  Clarke  only  occasionally  "  dropped  into 
poetry,"  but  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  be  other  than  bright,  witty,  and  forcible.  He  wrote 
and  adapted  several  pieces  for  the  Colonial  stage.  As  a  lite- 
rary critic,  within  the  limit  of  his  artistic  sympathies,  he  was 
admirable,  and  his  influence  was  felt,  if  not  known,  througli 
the  columns  of  the  A'je,  Aryus,  and  other  prominent  local 
journals. 

Died  i8Si,atSt.  Kilda,  near  Melbourne, premature!}',  leaving 


MARCUS  CLARKE.  105 

a  widow  and  several  children,  who  have  been  very  generously 
looked  after  by  the  friends  and  admirers  of  "Australia's  cl)ief 
novelist."] 

"7iV  A  LADY'S  ALBUM." 

What  can  I  write  in  thee,  0  dainty  book, 

About  whose  daintiness  quaint  perfume  lingers — 

Into  whose  pages  dainty  ladies  look, 

And  turn  thy  dainty  leaves  with  daintier  fingers  "t 

Fitter  my  ruder  muse  for  ruder  song; 

My  scrawling  quill  to  coarser  paper  matches ; 
My  voice,  in  laughter  raised  too  loud  and  long. 

Is  hoarse  and  cracked  with  sintfins:  tavern  catches. 


No  melodies  have  I  for  ladies'  ear, 

Xo  roundelays  for  jocund  lads  and  lasses, — 

IJut  only  brawlings  born  of  bitter  beer. 

And  chorussed  with  the  clink  and  clash  of  glasses. 

So  tell  thy  mistress,  pretty  friend,  for  me, 
I  cannot  do  her  "'best"  for  all  her  frowning. 

While  dust  and  ink  are  but  polluting  thee, 

And  vile  tobacco  smoke  thy  leaves  embrowning. 

Thou  breathest  purity  and  humble  worth — 

The  simple  jest,  the  light  laugh  following  after ; 

I  will  not  jar  upon  thy  modest  mirth 

With  harsher  jest,  or  with  less  gentle  laughter. 

So  some  poor  tavern-hunter  steeped  in  wine, 

With  staggering  footsteps  through  the  streets  returning, 

Seeing,  through  gathering  glooms,  a  sweet  light  shine 
From  household  lamp  in  happy  window  burning, 


lo6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

May  pause  an  instant  in  the  wind  and  rain 
To  gaze  on  that  sweet  scene  of  love  and  dutj', 

But  turns  into  the  wild  wet  night  again, 
Lest  his  sad  presence  mar  its  holy  beauty. 


TEN  YEARS  AGO. 

Dost  thou  remember  the  old  garden,  where 

We  used  to  steal 
To  build  our  silly  castles  in  the  air, 

My  pale  Lucille  1 
I  was  thy  knight :  and  thou,  my  love,  my  queen, 

No  shame  didst  know — 
For  had  we  not  played  babies  on  the  green  1 — 

Ten  years  ago. 

We  part,  we  meet,  thou  statelier  grown  and  cold, 

I  gaunt  and  grey  ; 
For  thou  art  rich,  and  I — in  sorrows  old 

Since  childhood's  day. 
'•  Lucille  !  at  last,  my  love !" — your  pale  cheek  flames. 

"  Did  you  not  know 
j\Iy  husband,  sir  ?    We  met — where  was  it,  James  ?  — 

Ten  years  ago  ! " 

Well — mine  the  fault  was  if  I  did  not  please ; 

You  judged  the  best ; 
You  feared  for  poverty,  and  longed  for  ease, 

Comfort,  and  rest. 
His  horses  stepped  as  high,  your  diamonds  made 

As  brave  a  show, 
For  all  he  won  them  in  the  hollow  trade 

Ten  years  ago. 


ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER.  107 

Yet  that  white  brow,  methiuks,  is  less  serene 

Than  in  that  time 
"When  bright  birds  sang  and  trees  and  fields  were  green, 

In  youth's  fair  prime  ; 
When  all  the  world  smiled  rosy  at  our  feet 

In  fancy's  glow, 
Ah  me  !  the  wondrous  dreams  we  dreamt,  my  sweet, 

Ten  years  ago  ! 

Xow  you  are  sadly  learned,  I  am  old ; 

Five  tongues  you  speak  ; 
You  sing,  compose — what  leaf  is  that  you  fold  1 

Plato  in  Greek  ! 
I  see — you  study  at  all  times — you  fret 

At  progress  slow — 
You  had  not  needed  Greek,  dear,  had  we  met 

Ten  years  ago. 

Xay,  never  blush,  Lucille.     I  am  not  base 

To  him  or  you ; 
From  thy  soul's  cell  no  love  must  his  displace 

Thy  whole  life  through. 
His  safeguard  and  thy  solace  lies  in  this — 

Is  it  not  so  1 — 
His  constant  kindness  since  the  bridal  kiss 

Ten  years  ago. 

"\Ye  met.     We  part.     If  life's  bright  best  be  lost, 

Much  still  remains ; 
Perhaps  a  higher  Heaven  for  him,  the  cost 

Paid  with  thy  pains. 
Good-bye,  my  dear;  and  if  this  tale  you  tell, 

These  verses  show, 
Say  only,  "  This  man  fought  a  hard  fight  well 

Ten  years  ago." 


lo8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  ever  figlits  !  for  if,  as  Churchmen  say, 

In  skies  above 
Soul  mates  with  soul,  as  ray  melts  into  ray, 

And  Heaven  is  Love, 
He  will  be  there,  and — if  he  still  loves  thee — 

Must  never  know 
That  thou  on  earth  hadst  e'er  a  tliouglit  for  me 

Ten  years  ago. 


NELLIE  S.  CLEEK. 

[Of  Kaidee,  Gippslaad,  Victoria,  has  published  a  thin  paper  book 
of  poems  entitled  Sowjs  from  the  Gippsland  Forest  (C.  P.  Niud, 
Miiboo,  North  Gippsland,  Victoria,  1887)]. 

AT  EVENTIDE. 

Through  the  forest,  vast  as  ocean, 

Furious  trees  and  furious  winds 
Whirl  and  roar  in  mad  commotion. 

Thunder  deafens,  lightning  blinds. 
Down  the  sun  has  sunk,  despairing. 

Clouds  are  pouring  forth  his  tears ; 
I,  too,  weep,  his  sorrow  sharing, 

I,  too,  sink  in  grief  and  fears. 

Life  is  short,  but  0  how  weary  ! 

For  my  best  endeavours  fail ; 
Fruitless,  joyless  years  and  dreary. 

Tire  my  brows,  my  cheeks  make  pale. 
I  have  lived,  but  why  I  know  not, 

Nor  what  purpose  I  have  served. 
Praise  of  God  ?     Alas  !  I  trow  not ; 

From  His  paths  my  steps  have  swerved. 


NELLIE  S.  CLERK.  109 

Long  I  dreamt  of  actions  glorious, 

Conquered  billows,  conquered  foes  ; 
I  have  lived  dull  years  laborious, 

Tilled  the  ground  and  cursed  my  woes. 
Toil,  perhaps,  has  manful  proved  me, 

But  has  earned  few  gladdening  gleams ; 
I  ne'er  won  the  love  who  loved  me, 

Realised  no  youthful  dreams. 

And  this  lot  is  not  mine  only, 

Else  some  comfort  I  would  take  ; 
Millions  disappointed,  lonely. 

Like  me,  their  appealings  make. 
Is  there  nothing  waiting  for  us  ? 

Our  appointed  tasks  being  done, 
Is  no  fairer  state  before  us  ? 

Shall  we  no  more  see  the  sun  1 

With  each  stage  of  earth's  creation 

Age  on  age  has  come  and  gone, 
Merely  turned  for  rock  formation 

Myriad  living  things  to  stone. 
What  is  life  worth  used  thus  cheaply. 

To  build  up  a  planet's  crust  % 
Must  we  in  our  turn  lie  deeply 

Crushed  beneath  the  future's  dust  1 

And  the  planets  incandescent. 

Shape  they  but  to  gorge  more  prey  1 
Shall  each  germ  in  them  increscent, 

Swell,  develop,  die  for  aye  ? 
Next,  shall  man  in  conscious  sorrow 

Tread  as  here  on  countless  death — 
Dreading  lest  he  ere  the  morrow 

To  oblivion  yield  his  breath  1 


no-  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

What  comes  after  ]     Shall  new  creatures 

Think  the  universe  their  own  1 
Ponder  o'er  man's  fossil  features, 

Deem  themselves  great  Nature's  crown, 
Through  unnumbered,  fateful  ages, 

Till  by  earthquakes,  floods,  and  fires 
They  are  sAvalloAved,  and  fresh  sages 

Class  them  with  strange  human  sires? 

On  and  on  the  scale  ascending. 

If  with  Life  Death  hold  no  truce, 
\Vliat  of  all  shall  be  the  ending  1 

What  of  all  can  be  the  use  1 
Could  we  here  but  fill  to  fulness 

All  our  cravings  after  bliss, 
Banish  envy,  crime,  and  dulness. 

Life  indeed  were  happiness. 

0  my  soul,  cease,  cease  complaining. 

Live  we  must,  whate'er  the  goal ; 
Wherefore,  then,  waste  time  arraigning 

Forces  past  our  poor  control  ? 
Yes,  we  live  because  we  must  do, 

Live  with  hearts  unsatisfied. 
Ye  who  have  a  God  to  trust  to, 

Would  I  were  with  you  allied  ! 

Fool !  you  call  me.     Am  I  ? — choosing 

Doubt's  wild  waters  for  my  bark, 
Overboard  my  compass  losing, 

Vaguely  drifting  through  the  dark  1 
That  am  I !  for  revelation 

Shows  the  while  a  placid  bay, 
Wherein  men  from  every  nation, 

Mooring,  watch  and  wait  for  day. 


NELLIE  5.  CLERK.  m 

These  are  wise,  nor  weakly  wonder 

That  not  yet  they  understand 
Things  above  earth,  and  under. 

By  omniscient  wisdom  planned ; 
But  they  trust  beyond  death's  portals 

Perfect  knowledge  God  shall  give  ; 
Blessed  faith  !  they  are  immortals  ; 

Here  they  but  commence  to  live. 

Is  this  so  1     Then  we  are  reigning 

Here  o'er  every  mortal  thing, 
And  we  are  as  sons  in  training 

For  our  Father,  who  is  King. 
Hark  !  a  cry  ! — "  Soon  thou  shalt  meet  Him  !  " 

Take,  as  Pilot,  Christ  the  blest. 
Away,  ye  doubts  !     I  fain  would  greet  Him  ; 

Father,  Father  !  give  me  rest ! 


/  SLEPT. 

I  SLEPT  in  the  great  gum  forest, 

By  one  of  its  mountain  streams. 
Where  tenderest  touches  and  sounds 

ISIingled  themselves  with  dreams. 
The  stream,  round  a  boulder's  breast, 

Rippled,  as  ripples  the  sea. 
And  over  it  swaying  fern-fronds 

"VVafted  me,  darling,  to  thee, — 
So  swiftly  my  darling  to  thee. 

"Wild  tangled  grass  to  my  side 
Stirred  softly,  like  ruffling  hair. 


112-  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

All  I  a  leaf  falling  lightly  down 
I  clasped — 'twas  thy  hand  so  fair. 

"  Dear  hand,  I  will  keep  it !  "  I  cried 
(And  a  bird  sang  sweetly  above) ; 

"Dear  hair,  as  a  royal  crown 

Let  me  guard  it  for  ever,  my  love, — 
"  Yes,  guard  it  for  ever,  my  love." 

I  had  gazed  in  a  silent  pool 

At  foliaged,  sunlit  skies  ; 
But  now  I  saw  lovelier  things 

In  the  depths  of  a  woman's  eyes. 
Circling  so  free  and  so  cool, 

I  had  envied  the  dragon-fly's  bliss  ; 
But  now,  as  he  dipped  his  wings, 

I  heard,  yes,  and  felt  a  soft  kiss, 
A  gently  breathed,  tremulous  kiss. 

•Love,  I  am  here,  I  am  here  ! 

(Branches  were  whispering  then.) 
I  have  traversed  dividing  seas, 

I  have  come  to  you  once  again. 
Enter  my  boat  without  fear, 

Sail  with  me  homeward — Ah,  no  ! 
Alone  in  the  chill  night  breeze 

I  wake — must  it  ever  be  so  ? 
Dear  love,  must  it  ever  be  so  1 


VICTOR  y.  DALEY.  113 

YICTOE  J.  DALEY. 

[Enjoys  a  considerable  reputation  in  Australia,  but  unfortunately 
the  editor  has  received  no  communication  from  him,  and  there- 
fore can  give  no  biographical  details,  and  no  poems  except  one 
he  had  saved,  which  appeared  in  the  Victorian  lievieu:] 

LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

{Two  Sonnets.) 

Death. 

The  angel  seers  of  old  who  writ  in  words 
Like  drops  of  blood  great  thoughts,  that  through  the  niylit 
( )f  ages  burn,  as  eyes  of  lions  light 
Deep  jungle-dusks  ;  who  smote  with  songs  like  swords 
The  soul  of  man  on  its  most  secret  chords, 
And  made  the  heart  of  him  a  harp  to  smite — 
AVhere  are  they  1     Where  that  old  man  lorn  of  sight, 
The  king  of  song  among  these  laurelled  lords  ? 
JJut  where  are  all  the  ancient  singing  spheres 
That  burst  through  Chaos  like  the  summer's  breath 
Through  ice-bound  seas  where  never  seaman  steers  ? 
Ijurnt  out.     Gone  down.     No  star  remembereth 
These  stars  and  seers  well-silenced  through  the  years — 
The  songless  years  of  everlasting  death. 

Life. 

What  know  we  of  the  dead  who  say  these  things, 

Or  of  the  life  in  Death  below  the  mould  ? 

What  of  the  mystic  laws  that  rule  the  old 

Grey  realms  beyond  our  poor  imaginings, 

Where  death  is  life?     The  bird  with  spray-wet  wings 

Knows  more  of  what  the  deeps  beneath  him  hold. 

Let  be :  Avarm  hearts  shall  never  wax  a-cold, 

II 


114  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Cut  burn  in  roses  through  eternal  springs ; 

For  all  the  banished  fruit  and  flower  of  time 

Are  flower  and  fruit  in  worlds  we  cannot  see, 

And  all  we  see  is  but  a  shadow-mime 

Of  things  unseen,  and  time  that  comes  to  flee 

Is  as  the  broken  echo  of  a  rhyme 

In  God's  great  epic  of  Eternity. 


J.  F.  DANIELL. 

[Of  Windsor,  Melbourne,  author  of  "Rhymes  for  tlie  Times,"  a 
poetical  commentary  on  current  events  appearing  in  the  columns 
of  the  Herald,  from  which  the  poem  quoted  is  taken.  Formerly 
wrote  under  the  nom-de-plume  of  "  A  Long  Fellow."] 

THE  JUBILEE  OF  MELBOURNE. 

For  ages  wild  and  restless  waves  had  cast 
Their  burden  on  a  low  untrodden  shore, 
Which  never  stately  white- winged  ship  had  passed. 
Or  rugged  seamen  touched  with  friendly  oar ; 
Where  never  loving  comrades  flocked  to  pour 
Their  boisterous  welcomes,  or  sweet  maidens  came 
To  look  the  language  lips  were  shy  to  frame. 

Here  'neath  the  scorching  heat  of  summer  days 

The  shimmering  waves  stole  up  to  kiss  the  sands, 

And  the  fair  moon  with  peerless  silver  rays 

Lent  beauty  luminous  to  Southern  lands, 

Whose  lonely,  wild,  yet  not  unlovely  strands 

Had  never  echoed  to  the  steps  of  men. 

Who  dreamed  of  unknown  worlds  beyond  their  ken. 

The  waters  of  this  noble  bay  were  fed 
By  a  pure  stream  which  no  pollution  knew ; 
!Man's  commerce  had  not  stirred  its  rocky  bed, 
But  on  its  bank  sweet-scented  wattles  grew, 


J.  F.  DANIELL. 

Amidst  whose  fragrant  bouglis  soft  love-birds  flew, 
And  magpies  poured  from  glossy  plumaged  throats 
Their  morning  song  of  rich  melodious  notes. 

From  out  the  scrub  that  fringed  the  river-bank 
What  dusky,  strange,  and  uncouth  forms  emerge, 
With  matted  locks,  which  cling  like  sedges  rank 
Round  gaunt  old  tree-trunks  on  the  water's  verge — 
Sons  of  the  forest  wild  whose  plaintive  dirge, 
The  mournful  wail  of  hapless  destiny, 
The  sad  winds  carry  to  the  moaning  sea  ! 

There  dawned,  at  last,  a  day  when  all  was  changed  : 

The  restless  overflow  of  Northern  lands. 

From  Old  World  thoughts  and  sympathies  estranged, 

Winged  South  their  way  in  bold,  adventurous  bands, 

liearing  courageous  hearts  and  vigorous  hands 

To  carve  their  way  to  Avealth  with  manly  toil. 

And  plant  dominion  in  productive  soil. 

Here  fifty  winters  since,  by  Yarra's  stream, 
A  scattered  hamlet  found  its  modest  place  : 
What  mind  would  venture  then  in  wildest  dream 
Its  wondrous  growth  and  eminence  to  trace  1 
What  seer  predict  a  stripling  in  the  race 
Vould,  swift  as  Atalanta,  win  the  prize 
Of  progress,  'neath  the  World's  astonished  eyes  ? 

It  is  no  dream.     Upon  those  grass-grown  streets 
Has  risen  up  a  city  vast  and  fair, 
In  whose  thronged  thoroughfares  the  stranger  meets 
With  signs  of  all  the  world  can  send  most  rare 
And  costly  to  her  marts.     And  everywhere 
Ascends  the  hum  of  nervous,  bustling  strife— 
The  splendid  evidence  of  healthy  life. 


ii6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"Where  stalwart  bushnien  lounged  through  sultry  hours, 
And  large-boned  oxen  bowed  beneath  the  yoke, 
Are  parks  and  gardens  rich  with  plants  and  flowers, 
Mansions  embowered  in  ash,  and  elm,  and  oak. 
Churches  where  worshippers  Heaven's  aid  invoke, 
And  towers  and  steeples,  monuments  and  domes, 
Rise  amidst  crowded  haunts  and  peaceful  homes. 


E.  WILSON  DOBBS. 

[Born  in  Melbourne  ;  an  architect  by  profession  ;  for  five  years  in  the 
Public  Works  Department  of  the  Tasmanian  Civil  Service ;  now 
in  the  Melbourne  Civil  Service.  Educated  at  the  Church  of 
England  Gramniar-School,  Melbourne.  Has  done  important 
work  in  connection  with  literary  clubs.] 

IN  MEMORIAM. 
Charles  George  Gordon. 

"  Come  quickly  " — 'twas  thy  last  message— God  pity  thee  ! 

— help  was  no  help  when  it  got  to  Khartoum ; 
Hark  to  their  shouting ! — the  foe   in   the   city   see  ! — 

"Gordon,"  thy  daring  hath  compassed  thy  doom. 
Ah  !  what  a  greeting  for  those  who  were  straining  sinew 

and  nerve,  every  heart-pulse  and  breath, 
Reachiig  the  goal  to  but  find  for  their  gaining  nothing 

1  ut  treachery,  conquest,  and  death  ! 
Late !   ye ;,  too   late !   are   the  words  that  are   tracM  in 

letters  of  blood  on  that  Arabic  pile ; 
England  must  ever  feel  sad  and  disgraced,  stabbed  to  the 

death  is  her  Lord  of  the  Nile. 

Gordon,  thou  type  of  a  perfect  knight  templar,  bearing 

the  cross  'gainst  a  Saracen  foe. 
Eminent,    steadfast,    and    stainless    exemplar,    freer    for 

nations,  thou  usest  to  go 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  117 

Onward  serene  like  Crusader  to  battle,  faith  and  the 
Bible  thy  armour-of-mail, 

Restfully  calm  'mid  the  roar  and  the  rattle ;  trusting 
that  God  would  be  sure  to  prevail. 

Galahad  thou — waging  war  'gainst  Saladin — with  Gala- 
had's strength  and  with  Galahad's  heart ; 

Embodied  soul  of  a  noble  Paladin,  henceforth  from 
heroes  no  more  to  depart. 

Guerdon  for  self — thou  hast  ever  rejected — as  for  the 

Militant  Church  thou  didst  strive, 
Offering  all,  now,  thy  God  hath  elected  thine  own  most 

wished  for  reward  to  arrive. 
Ring  out,  ye  bells,  with  a  strain  pure  and  tender,  comfort 

ye  all  that  are  sorely  bereaved  ; 
Divinity  loves  thus  true  service  to  render;  a  soldier  of 

Christ  from  on-guard  is  relieved. 
O  !  single  soul,  full  of  spiritual  leaven,  prophet,  saint, 

warrior,  alway  confest, 
Now,  on  the  shore  of  the  river  of  Heaven,  vanquished, 

yet  victor,  rejoice  thee  at  rest  1 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G. 

[.■Vccording  to  the  European  Mail,  born  in  Surrey,  May  20,  18 1 1, 
and  matriculated  at  Cambridge,  as  a  member  of  St.  John's 
College,  in  1829.  After  three  years'  residence,  left  the  Uni- 
versity without  graduating,  and  was  called  to  the  Bar  at  the 
Middle  Temple  in  1 84 1.  So  early  as  1832  published  a  small 
volume  of  poems,  and  six  or  seven  years  afterwards  contributed 
short  poetical  pieces  to  Blackicood' s  Matjazine,  one  of  which — 
"A  Christmas  Hymn" — was  much  admired.  It  atti-acted  the 
favourable  notice  of  Longfellow,  In  1842  went,  among  the 
earliest   settlers,  to   Nelson,  in    New  Zealand.     His   literary 


iiS  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

abilities  soon  obtained  for  him  tliree  eminent  distinctions.  Hig 
account  of  the  Wairau  Massacre  in  1843,  and  the  petition 
which  he  wrote  at  the  request  of  the  Nelson  settlers  for  the 
recall  of  Governor  Fitz-Roy  in  1845,  niay  well  rank  as  valuable 
State  papers.  Appointed  a  member  of  the  Legislative  Council 
in  1846,  and  on  the  introduction  of  the  Constitution  of  1847, 
Colonial  Secretary  of  the  province  of  New  Munster,  and  in 
1851  Civil  Secretary  of  New  Zealand.  From  1854  to  1856  the 
sole  management  of  a  new  and  extensive  district  at  Hawke's 
Bay  was  entrusted  to  him  ;  and  he  admirably  discharged  new 
and  laborious  duties.  While  so  employed,  elected  without  his 
knowledge,  after  a  contest,  to  represent  the  town  of  Nelson  in 
the  House  of  Representatives.  In  1862  and  1863  was  Premier" 
of  the  colony.  Afterwards,  from  1864  to  187 1,  Secretary  for 
Crown  Lands  ;  and  i-n  that  difficult  office  so  distinguished 
himself,  that  in  1870,  when  he  held  a  seat  in  the  Legislative 
Council,  he  was  specially  excepted,  while  he  continued  Secretary 
of  Crown  Lands,  from  the  law  of  Parliamentary  disqualification. 
Nor  did  he  confine  himself  to  official  duties  :  his  love  of  litera- 
ture led  him  to  the  devotion  of  his  leisure  to  the  organisa- 
tion and  classification  of  the  Parliamentary  Library;  and  the 
colony  is  specially  indebted  to  him  for  his  efforts  in  that  work. 
Came  to  England  in  1871,  and  resided  there  till  he  died  in 
1887.  Made  in  1880  a  Companion  of  the  Order  of  St.  Michael 
and  St.  George. 

Soon  after  his  return  to  England  published  lianolf  and 
Amohia  (Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  &  Co.),  a  poem  in  which  he  de- 
scribed the  scenery  of  New  Zealand  and  the  legends  and  habits 
of  the  Maoris;  and  in  1877,  Flotsam  and  Jetsam  (Smith, 
Elder,  &  Co.) 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  RAN  OLE  AND  AMOHIA. 

Well  !  if  Truth  be  all  welcomed  with  hardy  reliance, 

All  the  lovely  unfoldings  of  luminous  Science, 

All  that  logic  can  prove  or  disprove  be  avowed  : 

Is  there  room  for  no  faith — though  such  evil  intrude — 

In  the  dominance  still  of  a  Spirit  of  Good  1 

Is  there  room  for  no  hope — such  a  handbreadth  we  scan — 

In  the  permanence  yet  of  the  Spirit  of  Man  ?— 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  119 

!^^ay  we  bless  the  far  seeker,  nor  blame  the  fine  dreamer  ? 
Leave  Reason  her  radiance — Doubt  her  due  cloud  ; 
ISTor  their  Rainbows  enshroud  1 

From  our  Life  of  realities — hard — shallow-hearted, 
Has  Romance — has  all  glory  idyllic  departed — 
From  the  workaday  world  all  the  wonderment  flown  ? 
Well,  but  what  if  there  gleamed,  in  an  Age  cold  as  this, 
The  divinest  of  Poets'  ideal  of  bliss  ? 
Yea,  an  Eden  could  lurk  in  this  Empire  of  ours. 
With  the  loneliest  love  in  the  loveliest  bowers  ] — 
In  an  era  so  rapid  with  railway  and  steamer, 
And  with  Pan  and  the  Dryads  like  Raphael  gone — 
What  if  this  could  be  shown  1 

0  my  friends,  never  deaf  to  the  charms  of  Denial, 
Were  its  comfortless  comforting  worth  a  life-trial — 

1  )iscontented  content  with  a  chilling  despair  ? — 
Better  ask  as  we  float  down  a  song-flood  unchecked 
If  our  sky  with  no  Iris  be  glory-bedecked? 
Through  the  gloom  of  eclipse  as  we  wistfully  steal 
If  no  darkling  aur^olar  rays  may  reveal 

That  the  Future  is  haply  not  utterly  cheerless : 
AV^hile  the  Present  has  joy  and  adventure  as  rare 
As  the  Past  when  most  fair  ] 

And  if,  weary  of  mists,  you  will  roam  undisdaining 
To  a  land  where  the  fanciful  fountains  are  raining 
Swift  brilliants  of  boiling  and  beautiful  spray 
In  the  violet  splendour  of  skies  that  illume 
Such  a  wealth  of  green  ferns  and  rare  crimson  tree-bloom  ; 
Where  a  people  primeval  is  vanishing  fast. 
With  its  faiths  and  its  fables  and  ways  of  the  past : 
O,  with  reason  and  fancy  unfettered  and  fearless. 
Come  plunge  wilh  us  deep  into  regions  of  Day — • 
Come  away — and  away  ! — 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


MIROA'S  STORY. 


"  Alas,  and  well-a-Jay  !  they  are  talking  of  me  still : 
By  the  tingling  of  my  nostril,  I  fear  they  are  talking  ill ; 
Poor  hapless  I !— poor  little  I ! — so  many  mouths  to  fill — 
And  all  for  this  strange  feeling,  0  this  sad  sweet  pain  ! 

0  senseless  heart — 0  simple  !  to  yearn  so  and  to  pine 
For  one  so  far  above  me,  confest  over  all  to  shine — 
For  one  a  hundred  dote  upon,  who  never  can  be  mine  ! 

0  'tis  a  foolish  feeling — all  this  fond  sweet  pain  ! 

When  I  was  quite  a  child — not  so  many  moons  ago — 
A  happy  little  maiden — 0  then  it  was  not  so ! 
Like  a  sunny-dancing  wavelet  then  I  sparkled  to  and  fro  ; 
And  I  never  had  this  feeling,  0  this  sad  sweet  pain ! 

1  think  it  must  be  owing  to  the  idle  life  I  lead 

In  the  dreamy  house  for  ever  that  this  new  bosom-weed 
Has  sprouted  up  and  spread  its  shoots  till  it  troubles  me 
indeed 
With  a  restless  weary  feeling — such  a  sad  sweet  pain ! 

So  in  this  pleasant  islet,  0  no  longer  will  I  stay — 

And  the  shadowy  summer-dwelling  I  will  leave  this  very 

day; 
On  Arapa  I'll  launch  my  skiff,  and  soon  be  borne  away 
From  all  that  feeds  this  feeling — 0  this  fond  sweet  pain! 

I'll  go  and  see  dear  Rima — she'll  welcome  me,  I  know, 
And  a  flaxen  cloak — her  gayest — o'er  my  weary  shoulders 

throw. 
With  purple  red  and  points  so  free — 0  quite  a  lovely 

show — 
To  charm  away  this  feeling — 0  this  sad  sweet  pain  ! 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  i2t 

Two  feathers  I  will  borrow,  and  so  gracefully  I'll  wear, 
Two  feathers  soft  and  snowy  for  my  long  black  lustrous 

hair ; 
Of  the  albatross's  down   they'll  be — 0   how  charming 
they'll  look  there — 
All  to  chase  away  this  feeling — 0  this  fond  sweet  pain  ! 

Then  tlie  lads  will  flock  around  me  with  flattering  talk 

all  day — 
And  with  anxious  little  pinches  sly  winks  of  love  convey  ; 
And  I  shall  blush  with  happy  pride  to  hear  them  ...   I 

dare  say  .  .  . 
And  quite  forget  this  feeling,  O  this  sad  sweet  pain  ! " 


LOVE  AND  NATURE  LUXURL-iNT. 
From  "Raxolf  and  Amohia,"  Book  iy.  Canto  hi. 

I,   I'hc  Ilappy  Loccr.     2.   Love's   Young  Dream.     3.  A  Latter-da)/ 
Eden.     4.  A  suitable  Home  for  the  fascinating  dread  Deify, 


A  KING — a  God — a  little  child 
Your  happy  Lover  is  ;   a  Saint 
"With  all  the  Eternal  Powers  at  one- 
Serene — confiding — reconciled  : 
He  thinks  no  ill — believes  in  none ; 
There  is  for  him  no  sin,  no  taint, 
No  room  for  doubt,  disgust,  complaint, 
Misgiving  or  despondence  faint : 
Life's  mystery  flies,  her  secret  won, 
Like  morning  frost  before  the  sun  ; 


122  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

How  should  its  cobweb-ties  arrest 

The  triumph  of  his  bounding  breast ! 

How  should  he  feel,  -with  actual  heaven 

In  measureless  fruition  given, 

The  mounting  spirit's  mortal  load  ? 

Feel,  steeped  in  empyrean  day 

And  rapture  without  stint  bestowed, 

The  Mind  too  big  for  its  abode, 

The  Soul's  discomfort  in  its  clay  ? 

Why  look  to  some  seraphic  sphere 

For  light,  for  love,  so  lavish  here  ? 

In  this  our  gorgeous  Paradise 

Why  bend  to  grief — why  stoop  to  vice  ? 

Ah  !  wh}'^  distrest  and  sorrow-prest  ? — 

Why  not  be  right  and  brave  and  blest? 

How  easy,  in  a  world  so  bright, 

To  be,  to  live,  blest,  brave,  and  right ! — 

He  breathes  Elysium — walks  on  wings  ; 

His  own  unbounded  bliss  he  flings 

O'er  all  deformed,  unhappy  things  : 

Transfigured  are  they — glorified  ; 

Or  vanish  and  cannot  abide 

The  flood  of  splendour,  the  full  tide 

Of  joy  that  from  his  heart  so  wide 

Wells  over  all  the  world  beside. 

0  Melodist  unequalled — Pride 

Of  Nature's  self-taught  songsters  he  ! 

Inspired — unconscious — mute  too  soon — 

Who  sits  and  sings  bis  lyric  Life-song  free 

To  glad  Creation's  high  triumphant  tune  ! 

11. 

So  for  herself  and  most  for  her  beloved 

All  anxious  cares  and  fears  removed. 

So  upon  Amohia  now  unclouded  beams — • 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  123 

In  rounded  fulness  of  possession  streams 

Once  more  the  dream  of  dreams — 

The  dear  divine  delirium  !  say 

Once  to  all  by  fate  allowed ; 

Though  from  its  shy  crescent  small, 

That  finest  silver  eyelash,  fall 

Only  its  earliest  rising  ray  ; 

Clothing  them  ever  with  a  luminous  cloud 

Wherein  they  may  a  sweet  while  stray, 

In  the  thronging  whisper-play 

Of  Angels'  wings,  on  life's  highway ; 

Monomaniacs,  in  the  charge 

Of  Beauty, — blissfully  at  large 

'Mid  the  sadly  saner  crowd.  1 


HI. 

But  ice  pause — toe  pale  before  if, 

Fairest  reader — that  soft  splendour  .♦ 

And  your  pardon  we  implore  it, 

If  in  sight  of  scenes  so  tender 

Heart  and  voice  we  haply  harden, 

And  with  faltering  step  pass  o'er  it. 

That  sequestered  Eden-garden ; 

Painting  in  evasive  fashion 

Two  young  lovers,  wildly  loving, 

Through  a  lovely  region  roving. 

Free  as  Nature — free  as  birds  are. 

Free  as  infants'  thoughts  and  words  are  ! 

Ah !  too  rich  for  our  rude  treating. 

Too  exalted  for  our  story, 

That  intense  absorbing  passion —  , 

That  fine  fever  of  young  Love  ; 

"Which,  though  cheating,  swiftly  fleeting, 

Oft  it  seems  to  mock  and  flout  us. 


12+  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Comes  so  innocent,  undesigning, 

Comes  into  our  darkness,  shining, 

Comes  and  wraps  the  mystic  glory 

Of  the  golden  Heavens  about  us  ! 

And  though  pining  or  declining, 

Buried — pent  here — without  vent  here — 

Lone — a  stranger,  wild,  erratic ; 

Soon  returning  to  the  burning 

Blisses  of  its  home  above — 

Leaves  a  bud  elsewhere  to  blossom, 

Leaves  a  light  in  every  bosom  ; — 

Just  revealing  ere  off-stealing, 

One  brief  glimpse  of  soul-enjoyment, 

To  endure  a  memory  sure — 

Pure — a  secret  life-refiner 

And  great  lure  to  realms  diviner, 

Where  abandonment  ecstatic 

To  the  infinite  of  feeling — 

Loftier  love  than  aught  existent. 

Ever  by  indulgence  growing 

Deeper,  fonder,  and  more  glowing — 

Tide  at  flooding  still  new-flowing, 

Flower  fresh-budding  while  full-blowing — 

Is  consistent — is  persistent, 

Is  our  normal,  true  employment ! 

IV, 

But  say,  in  any  Age  of  Gold 

Or  song-lit  classic  clime  of  old, 

Where  the  amorous  azure  zephyr-fanneJ 

Caressing,^  kissed  with  murmur  bland 

Some  finely-pebbled  Paphian  strand  ; 

Where  Cyprian  sea-winds  whispering  made 

Love-plaint  in  hot  Idalian  glade 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  125 

And  marble-terupled  mulbeny-shade ; 
Or  wliere  Avith  wanton  freaks  and  frets 
Sing  rough  Cythera's  sparkling  jets 
And  silvery-laughing  rivulets  ; 
Or  out  of  sight  and  sunshine  slipped. 
And  lone  in  limestone  cave  and  crypt, 
Slow  heavy  tears  in  silence  dripped  ; — 
Were  ever  loveliest  scenes  in  sooth 
So  typically  fit  to  be 
A  birthplace  and  a  home  for  thee, 
Impassioned  Love  !  as  these  that  see 
Our  sylvan  Maid,  our  sailor  Youth, 
Love-linked  go  loitering  where  they  list, 
Love-led  through  Love's  own  mighty  misl  1 

A  wondrous  realm  indeed  beguiled 
The  pair  amidst  its  charms  to  roam. 
O'er  scenes  more  fair,  serenely  wild, 
^ot  often  summer's  glory  smiled ; 
AVhen  flecks  of  cloud  transparent,  bright, 
'No  alabaster  half  so  white, 
Hung  lightly  in  a  luminous  dome 
Of  sapphire,  seemed  to  float  and  sleep 
Far  in  the  front  of  its  blue  steep ; 
And  almost  awful,  none  the  less 
For  its  liquescent  loveliness, 
Eehind  them  sank,  just  o'er  the  hill, 
The  deep  abyss  profouiad  and  still. 
The  so  immediate  Infinite  I 
That  yet  emerged  the  same,  it  seemed, 
In  hue  divine  and  melting  balm, 
In  many  a  Lake  whose  crystal  calm 
Uncrisped,  unwrinkled,  scarcely  gleamed  ; 
AVhere  Sky  above  and  Lake  below 
"Would  like  one  sphere  of  a^ure  show, 


126  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Save  for  tlie  circling  belt  alone, 
The  softly-painted  purple  zone 
Of  mountains — both  where  nearer  seen 
In  sunny  tints  of  sober  green, 
With  velvet  dark  of  woods  between, 
All  glossy  glooms  and  shifting  sheen  ; 
AVliile  here  and  there  some  peak  of  snow 
^V"ould  o'er  their  tenderer  violet  lean. 

And  yet  within  this  region,  fair 

With  wealth  of  waving  woods — these  glades 

And  glens  and  lustre-smitten  shades, 

Where  trees  of  tropic  beauty  rare 

With  graceful  spread  and  ample  swell 

Uprose  ;  and  that  strange  asphodel 

On  tufts  of  stiff  green  bayonet-blades. 

Great  bunches  of  white  bloom  upbore, 

Like  blocks  of  sea-washed  madrepore, 

That  steeped  the  noon  in  fragrance  wide, 

Till  by  the  exceeding  sweet  opprest 

The  stately  tree-fern  leaned  aside 

For  languor,  with  its  starry  crown 

Of  radiating  fretted  fans, 

And  proudly-springing  beauteous  crest 

Of  shoots  all  brown  with  glistening  down, 

Curved  like  the  lyre-bird's  tail  half-spread, 

Or  necks  opposed  of  wrangling  swans. 

Red  bill  to  bill — black  breast  to  breast ; — 

Ay  !  in  this  realm  of  seeming  rest 

What  sounds  you  met,  and  sounds  of  dread  ! 

Calcareous  caldrons,  deep  and  large, 

With  geysers  hissing  to  their  marge ; 

Sulphureous  fumes  that  spout  and  blow ; 

Columns  and  cones  of  boiling  snow ; 

And  sable  lazy-bubbling  pools 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  127 

Of  sputtering  mud  that  never  cools  ; 

With  jets  of  steam  through  narrow  vents 

Uproaring,  maddening  to  the  sky, 

Like  cannon-mouths  that  slioot  on  high 

In  unremitting  loud  discharge 

Their  inexhaustible  contents  : 

While  oft  beneath  the  trembling  ground 

Rumbles  a  drear  persistent  sound 

Like  ponderous  engines  infinite,  working 

jVt  some  tremendous  task  below  ! 


TREES  AND  THE  TREE-GOD. 
From  "Ranolf  and  Amohia,"  Book  iv.  Canto  iv. 

I.  Ranolf,  on  a  hint  from  Amo,  rhrpsodises  on  beautiful  trees  and 
plants,      2,  Amo  affects  jealousy  :   Which  tree  shall  she  be  ? 

I. 

What  kindly  Genius  couching  in  Poets'  eyes. 

For  Custom's  cataracts  dim  the  keenest  sight. 

Gives  them  the  Infants'  crystal  power  to  prize 

The  simplest  beauty  that  before  them  lies, 

Transparent  to  its  wonder  and  delight  ? 

"  Why,  Rano,"  with  her  cheerful  smile 

Raid  Amo,  at  her  wifely  tasks,  the  while 

lie,  as  we  told,  in  such  enthusiast-style 

Revelled  in  all  the  leafy  life — 

All  the  green  revel  round  them  rife : 

*'  If  you  were  Tane's  self  indeed, 

The  Atua  and  the  Father  of  the  Trees, 

You  could  not  of  their  ways  take  greater  heed  !  " 

The  fancy  seemed  his  mood  to  please  : 

*'  Hurrah  !  "  he  cried,  and  following  her  lead 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Went  on,  as  with  mock-solemn  triumph  fire 
Half  to  himself,  and  half  to  her,  as  whim 
To  speech  or  thought  unspoken  guided  him, 
To  dally  with  the  notion  she  inspired : 

II. 

"I  am  Tane — the  Tree-God  ! 
Mine  are  forests  not  a  few — 
Forests,  and  I  love  them  greatly, 
Moss-encrusted,  ancient,  stately ; 
Lusty,  lightly-clad,  and  new. 
Mottled  lights  and  chequered  changes, 
'Mid  all  these  my  roam  and  range  is  ; 
Shadowy  aisle  and  avenue  ; 
Creeper-girdled  column  too : 
In  the  mystic  mid-day  night 
Many-mullioned  openings  bright ; 
Solemn  tracery  far  aloof 
Letting  trefoiled  radiance  through  ! 
Many  a  splintered  sun-shaft  leaning 
Staff-like  straight  against  the  roof 
Of  black  alcoves  overspread — 
Arched  with  foliage  intervening 
Layer  on  layer  in  verdurous  heaps, 
'Twixt  that  blackness  and  the  sun  ; 
With  a  tiny  gap,  but  one, 
Light-admitting ;  brilliance-proof, 
Day -defying,  all  unriven 
Elsewhere — all  beside  off-screening 
Of  the  grand  wide  glow  of  Heaven  ! 
Or,  where  thinner  the  green  woof 
Veils  the  vault  of  outer  blue, 
Many  a  branch  that  upward  creeps, 
Wandering  darkly  overhead 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  i2<) 

Under  luminous  leafy  deeps, 
"Which  an  emerald  splendour  steeps, 
From  the  noon  that  o'er  them  sleeps  . — 
O  I  tend  them,  love,  defend  them, 
And  all  kindly  influence  lend  them  ; 
For  my  worship  all  are  suited. 
If,  but,  in  the  firm  earth  rooted, 
By  the  living  air  recruited, 

They,  ere  it  grow  withered,  dull, 

Their  green  mantle  beautiful, 

Still  repair,  revive,  renew." 

(Then  to  himself,  more  musingly  ;) 
"  Many  creeds,  and  sects,  and  churches, — hopeful  each  its 

own  way  going  ; 
Bigots,  sceptics,  saints  and  sinners, — precious  to  the  Power 

all-knowing, 
So   they   Iceep    absorbing   evermore   of   Truth,    the   ever- 
growing." 

(This,  by  the  way,  because  he  could  not  smother 

That  inveterate  tendency 
To  find  in  all  things  symbols  of  each  other.) 

II. 

"  I  am  Tang— the  Tree-God  ! 
My  sons  are  a  million  ; 
In  every  region. 
Their  name  it  is  legion  ; 
And  they  build  a  pavilion 
My  glory  to  hold. 
AVhich  shall  my  favourites  be  ? 
"Which  are  most  pleasing  to  me, 
Of  their  shapes  and  their  qualities  manifold  1 — 
The  gigantic  parasite  myrtle 
That  over  its  victims  piles  up 
Great  domes  of  pure  vermilion, 

I 


I30  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Filling  the  black  defiles  up  : 

The  King-Pine  that  grandlj^  towers  : — • 

The  fuchsia-tree  with  its  floAvers, 

Poor  rustics  that  timidly  ape 

Their  sisters  of  daintier  shape 

"With  their  delicate  bells  down-hung, 

And  their  waxen  filaments  flung 

So  jauntily  out  in  the  air, 

Like  girls  in  short  crimson  kirtle 

That  spins  in  the  wind  as  they  whirl 

A-tiptoe  one  pointed  foot, 

And  one  horizontal  outshoot : — 

The  cZe//2a^2s-garlands  that  curl 

And  their  graceful  wreaths  unfurl 

From  many  a  monstrous  withe  ; 

Snowy-starred  serpents  and  lithe 

That  in  sable  contortions  writhe, 

Till  fancy  could  almost  declare 

That  great  Ophiucus,  down-hurled 

From  his  throne  in  the  skiey  star-world, 

Had  been  caught  with  his  glittering  gems 

'Mid  those  giant  entangling  stems 

Which  he  deemed  but  a  dwarfish  copse, 

So  was  struggling  and  surging  in  vain 

To  rear  his  vast  coils  o'er  their  tops 

And  his  gleaming  lair  regain  ! — 

Then  the  limber-limbed  tree  that  will  shower  its 

Corollas — a  saffrony  sleet 

Till  Taupo's  soft  sappharine  face  is 

Illumined  for  wonderful  spaces 

With  a  matting  of  floating  flowerets — 

Drift-bloom  and  a  watersward  meet 

For  a  water-sprite's  fairy  feet ; 

'Tis  the  koiohai,  that  spendthrift  so  golden  : 

But  its  kinsman  to  nature  beholden 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  131 

For  raiment  its  beauty  to  fold  in 

Deep-dyed  as  of  trogon  or  lory, 

How  with  parrot-bill  fringes  'tis  burning, 

One  blood-red  mound  of  glory  ! 

Then  the  pallid  eurybia  turning 

The  vernal  hill-slopes  hoary 

With  its  feathers  so  faintly  sweet 

And  its  under-leaves  white  as  a  sheet ; — 

All  of  them,  all — both  the  lofty  and  lowly, 

Equally  love  I  and  wholly  ; 

So  that  each  take  form  and  feature 

After  its  genuine  law  and  nature, 

Its  true  and  peculiar  plan  ; 

So  that  each,  with  live  sap  flowing, 

Keep  on  growing,  upward  growing. 

As  high  from  the  earth  as  it  can. 

"  Many  creatures — varied  features — darh  and  bright,  still 

onward  moving  ; 
Tyrants — tumblers — boors  and  beauties,  kings  and  clowns 

ali/ce  approving, 
To  them  all  the  Gods  are  gracious — to  them  all  the  Gods 

are  loving. 

HI, 

"  I  am  Tane  the  Tree  God. 
What  will  you  bring  to  me  ? 
Fruits  of  all  kinds  will  I  take. 
So  ripe,  true  fruits  they  be  ! 
Melting  pulp — ^.juicy  flake — 
Sweet  kernel  or  bitter — 
None  are  better — none  fitter — 
All  are  grateful  to  me. 
But  your  shell  with  no  lining 
Though  splendidly  shining; 
But  your  husk  with  a  varnish 
That  nought  seems  to  tarnish  ; 


132  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

If  any  of  these  I  espy, 

Empty  and  hard  and  dry, 
That  serve  but  for  clamour  and  clatter 

Or  the  genuine  fruit  to  belie  ; 
These  cheats  will  I  shiver  and  shatter 
And  their  fragments  scornfully  scatter, 

0  none  of  them  bring  to  me  ! 

"  Pains  and  ]r)assions — deeds  and  duties — virtues,  vices — 

gifts  and  graces — 
Have  not  all  their  value,  uses, — in  their  various  fitting 

places — 
So  they  he  not  false  pretences,  moclcing  masTis  for  natural 

faces  ? — 

"  There,  my  sweet  one,  that  is  what, 
Were  I  Tane  (which,  thank  God  !  rm  not, 
Seeing  mine's  a  happier  lot,) 
That  is  about  what  I  should  say, 
Had  I  my  own,  my  wondrous  way." 

II. 

And  Amo  coming  to  his  side  amused, 
Her  smiling  eyes  with  tender  love  suffused, 
"How  fond,  O  Eano  mine,"  said  she, 
"  Of  these  dumb  things  you  seem  to  be  ; 
I  shall  be  jealous  soon,  I  think, 
And  wish  myself  a  tree  !  " 

"  A  tree,  my  Amo  ! — but  I  wonder  which  » 
0  which  so  fair  that  we  might  link 
Such  loveliness  in  fancy  with  its  form  ? 
"Which  should  be  haven  for  a  heart  so  warm, 
So  sweet  a  Spirit's  dwelling-place  ? 
The  Rata-myrtle  for  its  bloom  so  rich — 
Or  Tree-fern  for  its  perfect  grace  ? 
Its  slender  stem  I  would  embrace 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  133 

How  fondly  ! — Nay,  but  that  would  never  do — 
That  limbless  Tree-fern  never  should  be  you, 
With  nothing  but  a  stem  and  plumy  crest ! 
Ah  no  !  the  glorious  Rata-tree  were  best. 
With  blooming  arms  that  spread  around — above ; 
lliat  should  be  you,  my  sole  delight, 
My  darling  bliss  !  that  so  I  might 
Embosomed  in  embowering  beauty  rest. 
And  nestle  in  the  branches  of  my  love  ! " 

"  Nay — but  I  would  not  be,"  said  Amo — "  I, 
That  Rata — if  the  change  I  had  to  try ; 
Rather  the  snowy  Clematis,  to  twine 
About  the  tree  I  loved  ;  or  rather  yet 
That  creeper  Fern,  with  little  roots  so  fine 
Along  its  running  cords,  it  seems  to  get 
For  its  gay  leaves  with  golden  spots  beset 
Its  dearest  nurture  from  the  bark  whereto 
It  clings  so  close ;  as  if  its  life  it  drew. 
Drew  all  its  loving  life  from  that  alone — 
As  I  from  thee,  Ranoro,  all  my  own  !  " 

She  paused  a  tender  moment — then  resumed : 

"  Xay,  not  the  Rata  !  howsoe'er  it  bloomed, 
Paling  the  crimson  sunset ;  for  you  know, 
Its  twining  arms  and  shoots  together  grow 
Around  the  trunk  it  clasps,  conjoining  slow 
Till  they  become  consolidate,  and  show 
An  ever-thickening  sheath  that  kills  at  last 
The  helpless  tree  round  which  it  clings  so  fast. 
Rather,  0  how  much  rather  than  destroy 
The  thing  1  loved,  the  source  of  all  my  joy. 
Would  I,  my  Rano,  share  the  piteous  fate 
The  Rata's  poor  companion  must  await — 
Were  you  the  clasper,  I  the  tree  that  died, 
That  you  might  flourish  in  full  strength  and  pride  ! " 


134  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  Nay — nay — my  Amo  !  were't  to  be  my  doom 
To  clasp  you  till  you  perished  in  your  bloom, 
Neither  to  misery  should  be  left  behind — 
Together  would  we  be  to  death  consigned — 
In  death,  as  all  through  life  in  love  entwined. 
But  now,  my  lovely  Clematis,  be  gay  ! — 
Though  never  shall  I  see  that  Kata  bright, 
In  murderous  fondness,  fastening  round  its  prey 
The  serpent-folds  that  hug  the  friend  they  slay, 
Without  a  sigh  for  the  poor  victim's  plight ; 
Without  a  wish  to  cut  and  cleave  away 
The  monster  throttling  what  has  been  his  stay  ; 
Without  some  wonder  why  the  Power  divine 
Includes  such  pictures  in  His  world's  design, 
And  even  in  the  lovely  vegetable  life 
Leaves  startling  models  of  unnatural  strife." 


THE  HAUNTED  MOUNTAIN. 

"Shall  we  run  into  the  cloudlet,  love,  so  luminous  and 

white, 
That  is  crouching  up  in  sunshine  there  on  yonder  lofty 

height  ? 
We  could  step  out  of  the  splendour  all  at  once  into  the 

mist — 
Such  a  sunny,  snowy  bower,  where  a  maiden  might  be 

kissed ! 
From  the  woody  lower  terrace  we  could  climb  the  russet 

steep 
O'er  that  chasm  gorged  with  tree-tops  still  in   shadow 

dewy-deep, 
Where  another  slip  of  vapour,  see  !   against  the  purple 

black, 
Set  ou  fire  by  the  sunbeam  which  has  caught  it  there  alone, 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  135 

Like  a  warrior-chief  inciting  his  adherents  to  attack, 

Has  upreared  itself  upright  with  one  imperious  arm  out- 
thrown  ! 

Up  that  slope  so  smooth  and  ruddy  we  could  clamber  to 
the  crags, 

To  the  jutting  rim  of  granite  where  the  crouching  cloudlet 
lags  : 

In  and  out  the  bright  suffusion  up  above  there  in  the 
skies, 

I  would  follow  my  fleet  darling  by  the  flashing  of  her 
eyes, 

O'er  that  lofty  level  summit,  as  they  vanished  vapour- 
veiled. 

Or  would  glitter  out  rekindling,  and  then  glance  away 
to  seek, 

Like  swift  meteors  seen  a  moment,  for  some  other  silver 
streak — 

Now  be  dimmed  and  now  be  dazzling  till  each  dodge  and 
double  failed, 

And  I  caught  her — 0  would  clasp  her  !  such  delicious 
vengeance  wreak 

On  those  eyes — the  glad,  the  grand  ones  !  on  that  laughter- 
dimpled  cheek. 

Till  with  merciless  caresses  the  fine  damask  flushed  and 
paled, 

And  half  quenched  in  burning  kisses  those  bewitching 
lustres  quailed  ! " 

"  Nay.  but  Rano,  my  adored  one — 0  my  heart  and  soul's 

delight  !— 
Scarce  with  all  your  love  to  lead  me — fold  me  round  from 

all  affright — 
"Would  I  dare  ascend  that  Mountain !    woody  cleft  and 

fissure  brown 
Are  so  thick  with  evil  spirits — it  has  such  a  dread  renown  ! 


136  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Such   a  hideous  Lizard-monster  in  its  gloomy  shades  it 

screens, 
That  as  rugged  as  the  rocks  are,  winds  along  the  closed 

ravines — 
E'en  asleep  lies  with  them  sinuous  like  a  worm  in  twisted 

shell— 
And  has  eaten  up  more  people  in  old  days  than  I  can  tell ! 
"Would  you  go  and  wake  that  Taniwha  !     0  not  at  least 

to-day : 
Look  how  lovely  calm  the  Lake  is  ! — 'twill  be  sweeter  far 

to  stray 
In  the  blue  hot  brilliant  noontide  to  each  secret  shadowy 

^ay, 
And  afloat  on  liquid  crystal  pass  tlie  happy  time  away  ! " — 


LILLIE  RAYMOND. 


I  THINK  ...  if  you  saw  in  a  fairy  palace 

]"or  lamp  an  Arum  as  big  as  a  chalice, 

Wherein  its  Queen  had  chanced  to  imprison 

One  beam  caught  from  the  sun  new  risen — 

One  fine  shaft  of  blinding  white 

And  one  of  tenderest  crimson  light 

Flung  off  at  eve  on  ocean's  shore 

With  all  the  kingly  robes  he  wore  ; 

Could  you  see  their  brilliant  sheening 

Mellowed  by  such  intervening 

Pure,  pellucid,  pearly  screening ; 
Why  then  I  think  .  .   ,  but  doubt  it  rather — 
A  faint  idea  'twere  yours  to  gather 
Of  the  delicate  blending  of  roseate  brightness 
With  sweet  Lillie  Kaymond's  diaphanous  whiteness  ; 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  137 

How  sweet  Lillie  Kuymond's  fair-blossoming  features 
Shed  a  halo  like  some  high-beautified  creature's ! 

II. 

I  think  ...  in  an  Arab  court  somewhere — 

Dark-fringed  with  plants  of  bloom  most  rare 

And  many  a  leaf  from  flesh  to  hair ; 

Breathing  through  the  trembling  heat 

Many  a  scent,  cool,  chymic,  sweet — 

Breathing  from  that  emerald  dusk 

Camphor  and  lemon,  mint  and  musk ; 

If,  midst  the  white  piazzas  set, 

All  marble  of  Morisco  fret, 

You  marked  a  dainty  fountain-jet 

Singing  up  in  silver  splendour, 

Straight  as  an  arrow,  straight  and  slender ; 

Then  watched  a  cataract's  snowy  rope. 

Lying  on  a  mountain's  slope  ; 

Saw  the  fixed  swift-moving  veins, 

Finely-fibred  sinuous  skeins 

Of  foam  in  milky  mazes  wandering, 

In  every  curve  of  grace  meandering  : 
Why  then  I  think  ...  in  some  doubt  .  .  .  you  could  guess 
What  opposite  beauties  coalesce, — 
What  rich  waves  of  loveliness  mingle  in  lightness 
With  sweet  Lillie  Raymond's  tall  wandlike  uprightness; 
IIow  sweet  Lillie  Raymond's  rich  figure  so  fashioned 
Keeps  the  gaze  never  sated.  Love  ever  impassioned  ! 

ni. 

I  think  ...   if  you  saw  a  swan  slow-swimming 

Down  a  river  crystal-brimming — 

Not  swimming,  say,  all  effort  hiding, 

In  white  glory  trance-like  gliding  ; 

Then  if  you  saw  the  swaying  grace 

Of  an  Emu's  stately  pace ; 


1 38  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POETS. 

And  o'er  notions  gathered  thence — 

Sweet  pride  and  gentle  confidence — ■ 

Could  diffuse  a  subtle  sense 

Of  the  elastic  lively  gestures 

Of  slim  gazelles  in  Syrian  pastures, 

When  Spring  and  Love  lend  double  joyance, 

Each  light  bound  a  lighter  buoyance ; 
Why  then  I  think  .   .  .   still  with  a  sprinkling 
Of  doubt  .  .   .     you  might  haply  get  an  inkling 
Of  the  sprightly  erectness  and  ease  so  endearing 
Of  sweet  Lillie  Raymond's  fine  walk  and  frank  bearing  ; 
How  sweet  Lillie  Raymond  in  motion  and  manner 
Is  as  graceful  and  free  as  an  eddying  banner ! 


I  think  ...  if  you  wove  the  dazzling  notion 

Of  sleek  slips  of  azure  ocean, 

A-gold  with  sparkles,  leaping,  linking, 

Dallying,  dancing,  trembling,  shrinking ; 

And  the  cool  calm  lustre  worn 

By  the  innocent,  breaking  morn. 

When  little  waves  in  snow-fringed  bands 

Gently  lap  the  yellow  sands  ; 

Could  you  mix  such  fair  bright  things 

With  shy  gleams  from  ravens'  wings ; 

Moon-lit  dewdrops  shining  wet. 

On  ripe  black  currants'  skins  of  jet ; 

Or  whate'er  gives  notion  fitter 

Of  brilliant  blackness,  sable  glitter  : 
Why  then  I  think  .  .  .  no,  scarcely  can  deem 
Even  then  you  could  guess  how  changefully  beam 
The  mingled  bewildering  bright  and  dark  flaslies 
Through  sweet  Lillie  Raymond's  black  curling  eyelashes  ; 
How  sweet  Lillie  Raymond's  rare  glances  can  fire  us 
Through  the  glow  of  black  pupil,  the  gleam  of  blue  iris  ! 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  CM. (7.  139 


I  think  ...  if  in  wild  admiration 

You  ransacked  all  God's  great  creation 

For  types  of  beauty,  spirit,  sweetness, 

Fit  to  paint  in  clear  completeness, 

This  pearl,  this  darling,  this  delight, 

This  topmost  charm  of  raptured  sight ; 

Her  cheek — the  orient  cloud-tints'  fineness ; 

Her  eyes — a  heaven  of  blue  benignness, 

Darkening  to  such  weird  divineness  ! 

Her  breath — fresh  wallflowers  summer-blowing, 

All  her  timid  true  love  showing 

In  its  quickened  coming — going 

Through  lips  like  crimson  corn-bells  glowing, 

In  sunset's  crimson  overflowing  ! 

Those  lightening  wreaths — swift  mantlings  gay 

O'er  chin,  cheek,  many  a  dimple's  play. 

Lips,  eyelids,  eyes — her  sudden  smiles  1 

Her  careless  witcheries,  artless  wiles ; 

Her  mirth  ;  her  mimic  arch  simplicities  ; 

Pretty  mock  pruderies  ;  feigned  rusticities  ; 

Large-hearted  sympathies  that  spring 

At  every  tliought  of  suffering, 

And  run  all  golden-rippling  warm 

O'er  rigid  rule  and  freezing  form  ! 

Yes  !  if  you  ransacked  all  creation 

To  paint  this  piquant  strange  temptation, 
Why  then  I  think  .  .   .  and  do  not  doubt  it, 
'Twere  loss  of  time  to  set  about  it ; 
Fur  you  never  could  guess  though  all  types  you  should 

tether 
What  sweet  Lillie  Raymond  is  like  altogether ! — 
How  sweet  Lillie  Raymond  wins,  witches,  entrances, 
He  only  who  knows  her — knows,  pictures,  or  fancies  1 


I40  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


A   CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 


It  was  the  calm  and  silent  niglat ! — 

Seven  hundred  years  and  jB.fty-threo 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  Queen  of  land  and  sea  ! 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars  ; 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain  ; 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  ! 


'Twas  in  a  calm  and  silent  night ! — - 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  ! 
Triumphal  arches  gleaming  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway ; 
What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away. 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  ! 


Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor : 

A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fall'n  throudi  a  half-shut  stable-door 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  C.M.G.  14 r 

Across  his  path.     He  passed — for  nought 

Told  what  was  going  on  within ; 
How  keen  the  stars  !  his  only  thought ; 
The  air  how  calm  and  cold  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  ! 


0  strange  indifference  ! — low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares  : 
The  earth  was  still — but  knew  not  why ; 

The  world  was  listening — unawares  ! 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  for  ever ! 
To  that  still  moment  none  would  heed, 

Man's  doom  was  linked  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  ! 

V. 

It  is  tlie  calm  and  solemn  night  I 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness,  charmed  and  holy  now  ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  name  had  worn 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay  new-born 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  Earth  and  Heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago ! 


142  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"LINDSAY  DUNCAN." 

[Mrs.  T.  C.  Cloud,  of  Wallaroo  Bay,  South  Australia.  Has 
published  no  volume,  but  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  of 
fine  poems  to  the  Australian  press.] 

WHISPERS. 

]5eneath  a  grey  old  gum-tree 
A  lover  was  wont  to  lie, 
And  whisper  of  love, 
As  he  gazed  above 
At  its  boughs  against  the  sky. 

"  Old  tree,"  he  would  softly  whisper, 
"  My  love  is  the  proudest  maid 
That  in  all  thy  day, 
Though  thou'rt  old  and  grey, 
Ever  sought  thy  welcome  shade  ! 

Old  tree,  she  is  far  above  me  ! 

My  love  sits  throned  in  pride, 
To  be  worshipped  afar 
Like  some  pure  bright  star. 

Not  won  as  a  mortal  bride  ! 

Old  tree,  she  is  cold  and  stately. 
She  dwells  from  my  love  apart — 
Though  my  soul  may  yearn. 
Though  my  bosom  may  burn, 
No  passion  can  reach  her  heart  I 

Old  tree,  of  my  life  I  am  weary  ! 
0  would  I  had  never  met 
"With  her  fatal  face, 
And  her  cruel  grace — 
Or  would  that  I  might  forget !  " 


LINDSAY  DUNCAN.  143 

Then  the  tree  would  whisper  of  comfort, 
In  the  stir  of  its  myriad  leaves — 
"No  soul  so  sad 
But  may  yet  be  glad, 
For  there's  balm  for  the  heart  that  grieves." 

Leneath  the  gnarled  old  gum-tree 
A  lady  was  wont  to  stand, 
And  in  sweet  caress 
Its  rough  rind  press 
With  the  palm  of  her  dainty  hand. 

E'en  her  lips  would  gently  touch  it — 
One  might  deem  such  a  kiss  misplaced, 
But  it  always  fell, 
As  the  tree  knew  well. 
On  the  letters  his  hand  had  traced. 

For,  like  those  in  the  forest  of  Arden, 
The  tree  bore  a  lady's  name, 

And  she'd  daily  read 

This  woodland  screed 
"With  blushes  of  pride  and  shame. 

"  Old  tree,"  she  would  softly  whisper, 
"Does  he  love  me — yes,  or  no? 
He  has  grown  so  dear, 
That  I  hourly  fear 
Lest,  unwitting,  my  love  I  show  I 

Old  tree,  with  my  secret  I  tremble 
Whenever  my  love  draws  nigh, 
For  I  know  in  my  heart 
Were  we  kept  apart 
There  were  nothing  left  but  to  die  1 


144  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  I  dread  lest  he  read  my  secret 
Of  love  that  is  given  unsought, 
For  my  heart  shall  break, 
If  he  fail  to  speak, 
With  the  sorrow  that  he  hath  wrought. 

But  never,  though  life  be  dreary. 
Will  I  suffer  that  he  should  see, 

That  though  no  word 

From  his  lips  I've  heard. 
He  is  more  than  the  world  to  me  !  " 

Then  the  tree  would  whisper  of  comfort 
In  the  stir  of  its  myriad  leaves — 

"  No  soul  so  sad 

But  may  yet  be  glad, 
For  there's  balm  for  the  heart  that  grieves. 

But  all  the  time  it  was  wond'ring, 
Deep  down  in  its  ancient  breast, 

Why  the  power  of  pride 

Two  souls  should  divide, 
And  true  love  be  unconfest. 


Perchance  the  old  tree  gave  wise  counsel — 
Perchance  it  their  whispers  betrayed  ; 
But  be  that  as  it  may, 
At  last  came  a  day 
When  the  twain  stood  hand-clasped  in  its  shade. 

But  no  more  to  the  tree  they  whispered  ! 
Their  whispers  were  each  to  each. 

For  the  veil  of  pride 

Had  been  torn  aside, 
And  love  had  found  bliss  in  speech. 


LINDSAY  DUNCAN.  145 

"While  the  grey  old  tree  was  whisp'ring 
In  the  stir  of  its  myriad  leaves — 
"  No  soul  so  sad 
But  may  yet  be  glad, 
For  there's  balm  for  the  heart  that  grieves." 


HUSH  / 

The  long  waves  murmur  on  the  lonely  shore, 

Chanting  that  ancient,  rhythmic  slumber-song 
With  which  they  lulled  the  infant  world  of  yore, 

And  soothed  it  ceaselessly  the  ages  long. 
Their  tuneful  monotone  soft  solace  speaks 

To  weary  hearts  and  overburdened  hands ; 
Do  you  not  hear  it,  as  the  ripple  breaks 

In  silver  foam  upon  the  golden  sands  1 — 
Hush  ! 

Iidand,  the  tit-lark  mounts  the  lucid  air. 

And  faintly  quivers  forth  a  fitful  strain ; 
"Wliile  distant  crickets  the  low  music  share. 

And  million-censered  wattles  on  the  plain 
Their  subtle,  balmy  fragrance  freely  pour 

Upon  the  open  bosom  of  the  breeze. 
That  bears  it  to  us  on  the  whispering  shore, 

And  seems  to  murmur  with  the  murmuring  seas,- 
Husli ! 

0  !  is  the  world  so  precious  to  your  heart 
That  you  can  spare  no  hour  to  linger  here  ] 

])o  you  so  love  the  crowded,  noisy  mart 

That  you  would  have  its  tumult  always  near  1 

Come,  slip  for  once  the  trammels  of  the  town ; 
Leave  greed  and  scorn  and  bitterness  behind  : 

K 


146  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Fling  all  your  cumbrous  load  of  trouble  down, 
And  listen  to  the  wavelets  and  the  wind. — 
Hush  ! 

Hush !  the  red  sun  dips  in  the  western  sea, 

And  in  the  fading  light  the  stillness  grows  ; 
The  earth  is  wrapt  in  tender  mystery  ; 

All  nature  lies  in  one  sublime  repose. 
A  happy  sadness  fills  the  soul  at  rest, 

Perchance  in  painless  tears  its  utterance  seeks  ; 
For  mingling  love  and  wonder  have  confest, 

'Tis  God's  own  voice  that  through  the  silence  speaks- 
Hush  ! 


"EUREKA." 

[John  Sheridan,  of  Toowooiuba,  Queensland.  Has  published  no 
volume,  but  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  of  poems  to  the 
press.] 

QUEENSLAND. 


My  native  land,  I  sing  of  thee, 
Thou  glorious  land,  proud,  great,  and  free  j 
With  joy  I  claim  thee  as  the  clime 
Which  gave  me  birth.     0  land  sublime, 
Be  proud,  be  great,  be  free  all  time  ! 


Gem  of  the  Southern  world,  shine  forth 
In  all  thy  splendour.     From  the  North 
The  stranger  comes, — from  South,  from  West, 
And  East, — to  thee,  0  land  the  blest. 
And  finds  in  thee  sweet  peace  and  rest. 


''EUREKA."  147 


Thy  sun  is  bright,  tliy  sky  is  clear, 
Thy  forest  trees  throughout  the  year 
Are  decked  in  smiling,  brightest  green ; 
Perennial  smiles  the  verdant  scene, 
As  if  dull  winter  had  not  been. 

IV. 

The  flowers  imported  to  thy  shore 
Breathe  forth  in  fragrance  sweet  as  yore ; 
For  me  thy  native  birds  full  well 
Symphonious  vernal  breezes  swell — 
To  me  they  sing  as  Philomel. 

v. 

Sweet  Queensland,  best  of  lands !  I  ween 
Thou  art  of  all  earth's  lands  the  Queen ; 
Thy  charms  abound  in  every  grove, 
Soft  zephyrs,  lingering,  sip  thy  love, 
And  waft  thy  praise  to  spheres  above. 

VI. 

0  !  may  the  music  of  thy  name 
For  ever  swell  the  song  of  fame ! 
May  Heaven  patriot  statesmen  send, 
May  progress  be  thy  angel-friend, 
And  with  proud  freedom  ever  blend  ! 


148  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


DUGALD  FERGUSON. 

[Of  Tapanui,  Otago,  New  Zealand ;  formerly  a  sliepherd  on  the 
plains  of  the  Darling,  New  South  Wales.  Has  published  a 
volume,  Castle  Gay,  and  oilier  Poems  (John  Mackay,  Dunedin, 
New  Zealand,  iSSj),  from  which  the  poem  quoted  is  taken.] 

HARD  ROWS  THE  WORLD. 

Hard  rows  the  world, 

With  its  freight  of  toil  and  care, 
With  its  weary  fight  of  life 

That  ev'ry  one  must  share  ; 
But  his  lot  is  hard  to  bear 

Who  scarce  can  hold  his  own, 
While  misfortunes  round  him  stare 

Till  he  sinks  beneath  their  frown. 
Hard  rows  the  world, 
When  once  a  man  is  down. 

Hard  rows  the  world 

When  adversity  blows  keen  ; 
That  chills  affection's  ties, 

And  leaves  mistrust  between  ; 
And  the  loving  social  scene, 

With  its  cheery  hearth-side  glow. 
Compelled  by  fortune  mean. 

The  poor  must  oft  forego. 
Hard  rows  the  world. 
When  its  clouds  hang  dark  and  low. 

Hard  rows  the  world 

To  the  friendless  and  the  poor. 
Where  virtue,  clothed  threadbare, 

Is  slighted  as  obscure  ; 


WILLIAM  M.  FERRAR.  149 

And  the  soul  of  feeling  pure, 

From  the  narrow  churlish  mind 
"With  its  proud  slights  must  endure, 
By  his  social  bounds  confined. 
Hard  rows  the  world, 
Yet  the  poor  must  bear  resigned. 

Hard  rows  the  world, 

But  the  man  to  honour  true, 
Let  fortune  smile  or  frown. 

Will  his  even  course  pursue. 
"With  his  bright  goal  well  in  view, 

Strong  in  the  right  he'll  stand, 
Though  understood  by  few, 

Still  those  a  chosen  band. 
Hard  rows  the  world. 
Yet  will  worth  respect  command. 


WILLIAM  M.  FERRAR. 

[Of  Ross,  Tasmania.] 
FROM  'M  JUBILEE  ODE." 

Neither  with  Jier,  Elizabeth,  the  brave, 

Tlie  lion-hearted  Queen,  of  virgin  charms. 

Who  shattered  on  the  island-girdling  wave 

The  might  of  Spain  with  England's  hosts  in  arms ; 

Who,  while  all  kings  in  solemn  awe  beholding. 

Wondering  and  trembling  at  tremendous  power, 

Played  the  pretending  lover,  her  white  hands  folding 

Prepared  to  strike,  smiling  in  Cupid's  bower ; — 

Lost  in  enchantment,  making  fools  of  men, 

Laughing  at  tears  :  her  battlemented  tower 

A  tower  of  care  indeed  :  her  house  a  den 


1 50  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Of  mocking  beings  :  its  grim  walls  arrayed 

With  ghastly  heads  !     Dread  Queen  who  ruled  by  fear  ! 

These  she  and  Biron  of  France  surveyed, 

She  hissing — "See  hoio  we  punish  traitors  here!" 

Laughing  at  wisdom,  her  own  wild  way  pursuing, 

Her  smile  a  Circe's  cap,  her  frown  a  terror 

Of  Gorgon- wreathed  serpents ;  her  hands  embruing 

In  kindred  blood,  a  sister  Queen's  !     Sad  error, 

Fatal  to  future  peace.     What  has  fate  to  show 

This  maiden  Queen  who  once  was  sweet  and  fair ; 

Who  from  young  hands  took  flowers;  whose,  tears  could 

flow 
In  tender  sympathy,  worn  to  the  grave  with  care 
A  miserable  wreck,  lately  fresh 

And  winning  girl !     Let  Es^ex  cry,  with  maddening  groan, 
Her  heart — one-half  indeed  was  heart  of  flesh. 
The  other  half — of  stone  ! 


BAREON  FIELD. 

[A  Judge  in  the  High  Court  of  New  South  Wales.  Printed  privately 
at  Sydney,  in  1819,  First-fruits  of  Australian  Poetry  ;  reviewed 
by  Lamb  in  Leigh  Hunt's  Examiner  for  January  16,  1820. 
He  also  published  several  poems,  in  his  Geographical  Memoirs 
of  Ntw  South  Wales,  by  several  hands  (John  Murray,  1825).] 

SONNET. 

ON   VISITING   THE   SPOT   WHERE   CAPTAIN   COOK  AND   SIR 
JOSEPH   BANKS   FIRST   LANDED   IN   BOTANY  BAY. 

Herb  fix  the  tablet.     This  must  be  the  place 
Where  our  Columbus  of  the  South  did  land ; 
He  saw  the  Indian  village  on  that  sand, 
And  on  this  rock  first  met  the  simple  race 
Of  Austral  Indians,  who  presumed  to  face 


ALEXANDER  FORBES.  151 

With  lance  and  spear  liis  musket.     Close  at  hand 

Is  the  clear  stream  from  which  his  vent'rous  band 

Kefreshed  their  ship  ;  and  thence  a  little  space 

Lies  Sutherland,  their  shipmate ;  for  the  sound 

Of  Christian  burial  better  did  proclaim 

Possession  than  the  flag,  in  England's  name. 

These  were  the  commelinae  Banks  first  found ; 

]]ut  where's  the  tree  with  the  ship's  wood-carved  fame  1 

Fix  there  the  Ephesian  brass.     'Tis  classic  ground. 


ALEXANDER  FOEBES. 

[Born  at  Boharn,  Aberdeenshire,  younger  brother  of  Archibald 
Forbes,  the  prince  of  war  correspondents.  Educated  at  the 
parish  school  of  Boharn  (of  which  place  his  father  was  thirty- 
eight  years  minister),  and  at  King's  College,  Aberdeen,  where 
he  showed  evidence  of  brilliant  promise.  His  university  career 
had  an  unfortunate  end  ;  for  some  youthful  folly,  either  snow- 
balling or  lampooning  a  crusty  professor,  he  was  "  sent  down." 
In  shame  for  this  youthful  mishap,  he  must  needs  run  away  to 
sea.  After  voyaging  all  over  the  world,  he  at  length  settled  down 
in  Queensland ;  and  after  a  very  chequered  career,  shepherd- 
ing "up  north,"  reefing  on  the  Morinish  gold-field,  engaged 
in  the  sugar  culture  in  the  Mackay  District,  road-making  in 
Roma  and  at  Mount  Abundance,  sheep-washing  at  Toowoomba; 
at  last,  worn  out  by  exposure  and  hard  life,  he  found  a  rest- 
ing-place in  the  graveyard  at  Toowoomba,  Queensland.  Author 
of  Voices  from  the  Bush  (Jlockhampton,  Queensland).] 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  GRA  VE. 

On  a  grassy  bank  doth  the  shepherd  lie 

Which  the  creek's  dull  waters  lave, 
"Where  tlie  gum-trees  nod  to  the  azure  sky, 
And  naught  one  hears  but  the  curlew's  cry, 
You  may  see  his  lonely  grave. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

In  a  distant  land,  long  years  ago, 

A  tender  mother  smiled 
O'er  the  cradle  of  him  who  sleeps  below  ; 
And  she  often,  I  ween,  would  a  kiss  bestow 

On  the  lips  of  her  slumbering  child. 

When  his  father  died,  in  that  trouble  great, 

She  turned  to  her  sturdy  boy, — 
All !  little  she  dreamed  of  his  dismal  fate  ! — 
And  she  prayed  that  he,  in  her  widowed  state, 
Might  grow  up  her  hope  and  joy. 


Even  yet  she  may  think  that  her  boy  doth  roam  ; 

And  her  aching  heart  may  burn 
With  hope  that  again  he  will  seek  his  home, 
As  she  wistfully  gazes  across  the  foam 

For  him  who  will  ne'er  return. 

For  low  and  deep  doth  the  shepherd  sleep. 

By  the  Queensland  waters  lying ; 
He  hath  laid  him  down  in  a  nameless  grave. 
Where  the  curlews  shriek  and  the  gum-trees  wave, 

And  the  southern  winds  are  sighing. 


THE  HON.  WILLIAM  FOESTER. 

[New  South  Wales  is  rich  in  public  men  who  have  displayed  literary 
and  poetic  talents.  Parkes,  Forster,  Lang,  Dalley,  Martin,  and 
others  have  all  shown  themselves  clever  writers,  as  well  as 
successful  members  of  Parliament.  Mr.  William  Forster,  some 
time  Premier  of  New  South  Wales,  was  a  brilliant  example. 
He  was  born  in  Madras  in  1818,  but  arrived  in  Australia  in 
his  eleventh  year.    His  public  career  was  very  remarkable,  but 


THE  HON.   WILLIAM  FORSTER.  153. 

he  always  held  a  high  place  as  a  jmirnalist,  miscellaneous  writer, 
sonneteer,  satirist,  and  poet.  His  sonnets  written  in  Sydney 
during  the  Crimean  War  are  the  most  widely  known  of  Anti- 
podean sonnets.  It  was  during  his  residence  in  England  as 
Agent-General  for  his  colony  that  Mr.  Forster  published 
"The  Weir- Wolf :  a  Tragedy"  and  other  poems.  He  was 
author  also  of  "  The  Brothers  "  and  "  Midas,"  the  latter  pub- 
lished posthumously.     He  died  a  few  years  ago.] 

SONNETS  WRITTEN  AT  THE  TIME  OF  THE 
CRIMEAN  WAR. 


Ah  me  !  the  world's  a  vault  that  history  paves 

With  buried  nations.     Egypt's  awful  bones 

Are  blanched  in  deserts.     Hark  !  the  dulcet  tones 

Of  Asian  winds  come  whispering  over  graves  ! 

Greece  only  melts  us  as  with  odorous  breath 

Of  churchyard  flowers  that  make  a  friend  of  death. 

Fair  Italy  in  hollow  accents  raves, 

Mingling  reproach  with  anguish,  as  a  ghost 

Complains  'mid  scenes  in  life  she  loved  the  most, 

And  Poland  like  a  prisoned  spirit  sighs  ! 

Far  off  how  many  a  dusky  nation  lies. 

Deep  hid  in  woods,  or  in  oblivion  lost. 

Oh,  Heaven  !  the  end — shall  this  be  ever  so  1 

And  whither  these  have  <j;one  must  England  "O  1 


Sebastopol !  that  on  the  sable  sea 
Sitt'st  with  the  blood  of  many  nations  bathed, 
Now  that  war's  waning  tempest  leaves  thee  free, 
How  proudly  frowning  from  thy  craggy  steep, 
With  haggard  looks  thou  dost  survey  the  deep, 
Sublime,  though  shattered — terrible,  though  scathed  1 
O  more  enduring  monument  than  brass, 
0  marble  shape,  stern  city  !  thou  shalt  pass 


154  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

From  memory  never — privileged  to  bear 

The  horrid  brand  and  character  of  war 

Imprinted  on  thy  forehead,  as  a  scar 

Adorns  a  warrior.     Oh  !  for  ever  wear 

Thy  glory  so.     When  noble  foes  are  crowned 

33y  our  own  hands,  we  make  ourselves  renowned. 


"Why  shout  ye  thus,  unthinking  multitude  1 
AVhy  thus,  with  sulphurous  stars  and  fiery  glare, 
]  )isturb  the  quiet  night  1     Why  vex  the  air 
With  idle  paeans  1     Look  you !  peace  is  good, 
And  therefore  to  rejoice  in  sober  mood, 
We  owe  to  God,  who  blesseth  us  thereby. 
I)Ut  why,  I  ask  you,  giddy  people  ! — why 
Need  Freedom's  sons  by  heartless  mirth  insult 
Their  brothers  in  affliction  1 — why  exult 
When  tyrants  only  chuckle  1     Still  the  sky 
Looks  down  on  nations  trampled  in  the  dust ; 
Still,  Poland  yields  her  myriads  to  the  lust 
Of  foreign  foes ;  still,  Italy,  depressed 
With  hopeless  anguish,  tears  her  bleeding  breast. 

IV. 

'Twixt  East  and  West,  a  giant  shape  she  grew. 

To  both  akin,  and  making  both  afraid. 

Casting  a  lurid  shadow  on  the  new 

And  ancient  world,  her  greedy  eyes  betrayed 

The  tiger's  heart,  and  ominously  surveyed 

The  peoples  destined  for  her  future  prey ; 

From  Polar  steppes  and  ice-encumbered  seas 

To  where  the  warm  and  blue  Symplegades 

Darken  the  splendour  of  a  Grecian  day, 

She  stretched  her  long  grasp,  conquering  by  degrees ; 


THE  HON.  WILLIAM  FORSTER.  155 

And  when  at  length  the  banded  nations  rose 
In  armed  resistance,  their  combined  array, 
AVith  equal  arms,  she  shrunk  not  to  oppose. 
But  bravely  stood,  as  still  she  stands,  at  bay. 


MIDAS. 


Time  was  when  ye  bore  it  bravely ;  ye  were  patient,  ye 

were  strong ; 
Cheerful  rose  your   labour-chorus,   as  a  happy  harvest 

song. 
V>y  the  toils  which  made  you  weary,  which  your  doubtful 

days  depressed, 
"Was  your  evening  leisure  sweetened,  sweeter  fell  your 

nightly  rest. 
Happy  were  ye  then  returning  from  the  trouble  and  the 

strife, 
"When  the  sacred  hour  of  rest  and  freedom  smiled  upon 

your  life ; 
"When  ye  read  the  precious  charter  of  release  from  labour 

done. 
In  the  files  of  friendly  shadows  lengthening  from  the  level 

sun. 
In  the  sunset's  crimson  glory,  in  the  twilight's  tender 

charm. 
In  the  coolness  closing  like  the  pressure  of  a  loving  arm, 
In  the  birds'  sweet  evensong,  the  headlong  bat's  bewilder- 
ing flight. 
In  the  sober-tinted  mountains,  blackening  with  the  breath 

of  night. 
When  the  sweltering  brightness  and  exhausting  glare  of 

anxious  day. 
Sinking  in  the  lap  of  silence,  melted  gradually  away. 


156  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  amid  the  soft  sad  light  and  glimmer  of  the  golden 

dew 
Many  a  common  shape  transfigured  to  diviner  beauty  grew, 
And  transmuted  by  your  fond  desires  the  discord  and  the 

noise 
Toned  down  softly  to  melodious  murmuring  of  domestic 

joys, 
And  diviner  beauty  still  was  woven  with  the  witching  time, 
And  diversities  of  discords  closed  in  harmony  sublime ; 
As  the  sense  of  gentle  welcomes  beaming  from  beloved 

eyes 
Shot  like  prophecies  of  Heaven  across  the  silence  of  the 

skies, 
And  the  whisper  of  home  voices,  like  enchanted  music 

heard 
In  Elysian  dreams  of  poets,  in  the  faithful  memory  stirred ; 
And  each  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  the  sparkle  of  his  hearth 

afar. 
Out  of  the  predominant  darkness  creep  like  a  familiar 

star. 
Thus  upon  your  quiet  lives  shed  joy  and  love  their  peace- 
ful beams, 
Haunted  by  no  dismal  shadows,  heated  by  no  frantic 

dreams. 
Happy  were  ye,  for  whatever  blessings  by  the  gods  were 

sent 
Sprang  like  seeds  from  fertile  soils  and  fruited  in  your 

full  content. 
And  the  bolts  of  evil,  by  the  genius  of  your  days  con- 
trolled, 
O'er  your  heads  like  harmless   thunder   in   unmeaning 

menace  rolled. 
Happy,  for  though  worn  and  weary,  yet  by  conscious  pride 

sustained, 
By  no  patron's  leave  encumbered,  by  no  tyranny  restrained ; 


THE  HON.   WILLIAM  FORSTER.  157 

"What  ye  earned  your  own  strong  arms  had  manfully  and 

nobly  won, 
Whatsoever  tasks  accomplished  by  your  own  free  will  were 

done. 
Then  ye  led  the  lives  of  heroes,  conquering  nature  by  your 

toil, 
Spreading  still  your  blest  dominion  over  the  transmuted 

soil. 
Conquering,  as  the  gods  themselves  once  conquered  when 

the  noxious  brood 
Of  Hell-gendered  monsters  by  their  heavenly  labours  were 

subdued. 


FROM  MIDAS. 
Cho7'us. 

Hither  walks  the  winsome  stranger, 

Loved  of  all  for  godlike  ways, 
Ah  !  what  maiden  free  from  danger 

On  that  glorious  face  shall  gaze  1 
Welcome  !  thou  sublime  new-comer  ! 

Towards  thee  every  heart  inclines ; 
Shine  upon  us  like  a  summer 

Shining  on  a  hill  of  vines  ! 
Look,  where'er  his  step  advances 

All  around  him  kindles  bright, 
From  his  warm  creative  glances 

Floats  an  atmosphere  of  light. 
Happier  seems  the  world  and  fairer, 

Music  breathes  and  beauty  beams, 
As  when  some  high  message-bearer 

Sheds  his  presence  on  our  dreams. 
Tones  and  pulses  of  creation 

Chime  on  his  harmonious  pace, 


158  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Earth  and  sky  take  consecration 

From  the  beauty  of  his  face. 
As  from  gods  in  ancient  story, 

Fly  before  him  fear  and  woe, 
In  his  eyes  a  golden  glory, 

On  his  cheeks  a  rosy  glow. 
On  his  brow,  serene  and  holy, 

Dwells  a  high  religious  calm, 
Joy  that  blends  with  melancholy — 

Mixed  as  in  a  marriage-psalm. 
Balmy  breezes  waft  him  over, 

As  when  round  some  new-born  star 
Mystic  airs  and  odours  hover, 

Preluding  its  path  afar. 
Faint  as  tones  that  memory  traces, 

Their  melodious  murmurs  roll. 
Scarce  we  feel  them  in  our  faces 

Ere  they  thrill  the  conscious  soul. 
On  his  track  the  people  follow, 

Like  the  scattered  clouds  that  run 
In  the  red  horizon's  hollow, 

Kindled  by  the  coming  sun. 
Surely  something  more  than  human 

In  his  wondrous  presence  charms  : 
Was  he  born  of  mortal  woman  1 — 

Did  some  god's  enamoured  arms, 
Wandering  earthward,  fancy-laden. 

With  predominant  will  divine 
Clasp  in  love  a  mortal  maiden. 

Fathering  an  immortal  line  1 
Welcome,  still,  thou  blithe  new-comer  ! 

Whether  man  or  god  thou  be  ; 
Welcome,  as  a  breath  of  summer 

Simmering  on  the  polar  sea. 


THE  HON.  WILLIAM  FORSTER.  159 


FROM  MIDAS. 

Happiest  who  the  soul's  ideal 

Still  through  farthest  flights  pursuo, 

For  to  them  their  dreams  are  real, 
And  their  fondest  faith  is  true  ; 

Dim  and  indistinct  though  be  all, 

Heights  of  Heaven  they  keep  in  view. 

0  !  let  us  continue  dreaming— 

Let  for  us  the  golden  haze 
Wrap  in  rich  and  glorious  seeming 

All  that's  left  of  lovely  days, 
As  through  western  windows  streaming 

Stretch  the  sunset's  lingering  rays. 

What  we  learn  through  love's  revealing 

Never  out  of  memory  dies, 
Many  a  flash  of  sudden  feeling 

Floats  its  message  from  the  skies ; 
Through  our  griefs  come  softly  stealing 

Glimpses  as  of  godlike  eyes. 


FROM  MIDAS. 

Our  existence  must  we  measure 
By  the  flight  of  years  or  days  1 

Look  what  portion  most  we  treasure, 
Ah  !  how  brief  a  time  it  stays  ! 

Always  when  we're  least  at  leisure 
Pass  we  through  the  blissful  ways. 


l6o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Great  events  alone  be  reckoned, 
Let  the  passion  and  the  power 

Stamp  itself  on  every  second, 
Making  ages  of  an  hour. 

In  our  front  by  them  we're  beckoned, 
From  behind  they  grandly  tower. 

Great  events  our  souls  enlighten, 
Piercing  through  the  haze  of  time  ] 

Past  they  still  in  interest  heighten 
By  the  shadows  made  sublime. 

As  the  stars  grow  clear  and  brighten 
To  the  zenith  as  they  climb. 

But  our  infinite  apprehensions 
Always  great  and  small  confound, 

Foolish  hopes  and  vain  pretensions 
Fog-like  our  horizon  bound. 

Until  Time  their  right  dimensions 
Takes  in  his  eternal  round. 

There  are  hopes  and  dreams  that  die  not, 
Colours  ever  bright  and  pure. 

Voices  from  of  old  that  lie  not, 

Lives  which  their  own  lives  ensure, 

Joys  o'er  which  we  groan  and  sigh  not, 
Since,  though  gone,  they  still  endure : 

So  this  hour,  whose  bitter  ending 
Racks  our  hearts  with  fatal  strain. 

Shall  appear  through  memory  blending. 
Purged  of  life's  ephemeral  pain ; 

And  to  stars  serene  ascending 
Shine  among  them  not  in  vain. 


THE  HON.   WILLIAM  FORSTER.  i6r 


FROM  MIDAS. 

The  love  in  her  eyes  lay  sleeping, 

As  stars  that  unconscious  shine, 

Till,  under  the  pink  lids  peeping, 

I  wakened  it  up  with  mine  ; 
And  we  pledged  our  troth  to  a  brimming  oath, 

In  a  bumper  of  blood-red  wine. 

Alas  !  too  well  I  know 

That  it  happened  long  ago ; 

Those  memories  yet  remain, 

And  sting,  like  throbs  of  pain, 

And  I'm  alone  below, 
But  still  the  red  wine  warms,  and  the  rosy  goblets 
glow; 

If  love  be  the  heart's  enslaver, 

'Tis  wine  that  subdues  the  head. 

But  which  has  the  fairest  flavour, 

And  whose  is  the  soonest  shed  ? 

Wine  Avaxes  in  power  in  that  desolate  hour 

When  the  glory  of  love  is  dead. 

Love  lives  on  beauty's  ray. 

But  night  comes  after  day. 

And  when  the  exhausted  sun 

His  high  career  has  run, 

The  stars  behind  him  stay. 
And  then  the  light  that  lasts  consoles  our  darkening 
way. 

When  beauty  and  love  are  over, 

And  passion  has  spent  its  rage, 

And  the  spectres  of  memory  hover. 

And  glare  on  life's  lonely  stage, 

'Tis  wine  that  remains  to  kindle  tlie  veins 

Aud  strengthen  the  steps  of  age. 

L 


l62  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POETS. 

Love  takes  the  taint  of  years, 
And  beauty  disappear?, 
But  wine  in  worth  matures 
The  longer  it  endures, 
And  more  divinely  cheers, 
And  ripens  with  the  suns  and  mellows   with   the 
spheres. 


KASSANDRA. 

I  KNOW  they  never  heed  me,  when  mine  eyes 

Forecast  some  awful  horoscope,  and  pierce 

The  eternal  haze  that  wraps  the  ages  round, 

And  shrouds  from  mortal  vision — when  my  voice, 

Constrained  to  sad  prediction  by  the  woes 

That  in  my  breast  accumulate  and  throb, 

By  the  deep  pain  that  gnaws  me  at  the  heart. 

And  by  resistless  impulse  of  the  God 

Who  moves  me  to  be  true,  and  smites  me  hard. 

And  will  not  suffer  me  to  keep  it  in ; 

Makes  vocal  what  I  cannot  choose  but  know, 

And  think,  and  see  before  me,  and  express, 

Portrayed  in  dismal  pictures — how  they  hiss 

And  hoot  me  in  the  streets,  and  laugh,  and  jeer  ! 

"  There  goes  the  mad  Kassandra  "  is  the  cry 

Of  many  that  molest  not,  but  pass  on 

Indifferent,  or  insensible,  or  weak. 

But  mobs  pursue  me  with  disdainful  yells, 

And  threatening  gestures,  and  indignant  breath, 

Which  trouble  me  to  pity,  not  to  wrath, 

For  theirs  is  wisdom,  if  indeed  it  be 

Wisdom  at  all,  then  wholly  of  this  world, 

To  wisdom  leaning  less,  to  folly  more  ; 

And  what  such  deem  of  me,  by  God  inspired. 


THE  HON.   WILLIAM  FORSTER.  163 

lu  their  mad  ignorance  and  unseemly  scorn, 

Were  fit  to  draw  down  pity  from  the  gods 

Who  suffer  long  the  follies  of  mankind 

But  curse  them  in  the  end — and  I  can  see 

Their  curses  in  the  skies,  and  on  the  clouds, 

Can  read  them  written  in  the  shining  stars — 

The  horror  and  the  ruin  that  await 

!^[y  people,  and  my  kindred,  and  the  sons 

And  daughters  of  my  father,  and  the  towers 

Of  this  imperial  city,  and  her  race 

Of  brave  and  haughty  nobles,  valiant  sons 

And  lovely  daughters,  and  her  ancient  throne. 

Stout  citizens  and  stalwart  artisans. 

And  this  foreknowledge,  Avhich  to  me  was  given 

For  their  advantage,  not  for  mine,  to  warn 

Them,  reckless  of  their  danger,  profits  not, 

Because  they  neither  hear  nor  comprehend. 

Alas  !  the  more  they  threaten  and  revile 

The  more  I  weep,  the  more  I  am  constrained 

To  warn  and  preach,  to  threaten  and  protest, 

Expostulate  and  solicit  and  exhort, 

And  strive  to  move  them  with  my  sighs  and  tears 

And  waste  myself  in  woeful  prophecies. 

The  many  hate  me,  but  the  few  despise. 

Nor  from  my  brethren  nor  my  father's  house, 

From  parents  or  from  sisters,  have  I  help 

Or  sympathy,  or  auglit  but  sullen  looks, 

Or  sneers,  or  dire  upbraiding,  or  contempt. 

The  few  in  their  indifference  are  sublime. 

And  hold  themselves  aloof  in  unbelief. 

And  selfish  coldness  and  unreal  trust. 

They  care  not  what  the  doom  my  lips  proclaim, 

Because  it  is  a  nation's,  not  their  own, 

And  their  own  part  in  it  but  little  felt, 

So  strong  their  sense  of  insignificance. 


i64  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

So  small  their  portion  seems,  and  so  remote, 

I^or  chink  nor  corner  in  their  narrow  souls, 

Nor  place  for  thought  the  public  welfare  finds, 

'Nov  intuition  of  the  general  woe 

Awakens  fear,  or  trouble,  or  mistrust. 

But  in  the  many  do  my  words  instil 

A  secret  fear  and  indistinct  belief. 

Which  cannot  be  got  rid  of  or  gainsaid. 

Or  put  away  from  knowledge,  but  which  haunts 

Them  like  a  spectre  they  have  never  seen. 

But  not  the  less,  though  forudess,  felt  and  feared. 

And  these  despise  me  not  because  they  fear. 

Thus  I'm  forsaken  of  all  human  love. 

All  human  sympathy  and  brotherhood; 

Thus,  like  a  creature  from  another  sphere, 

Alien,  and  isolated,  and  alone, 

I  walk  amid  the  herd  of  men,  and  live 

A  separate,  cold,  and  uncongenial  life, 

Fulfilling  horrid  duties,  and  oppressed 

With  this  hard  burden  of  prophetic  sight, 

Which  still  clings  to  me,  still  enciimbers  me, 

And  which  I  cannot  lighten  or  shake  off. 

Thus  among  populous  cities  I'm  alone, 

Alone  among  their  hurrying  multitudes, 

Alone  in  darkness,  more  alone  in  light ; 

For  smiles  are  foreign  to  my  face,  and  tears, 

Like  fountains  poured  down  from  the  heaped-up  years 

Plough  never-ending  furrows  in  my  cheeks. 

And  night  and  day  are  conscious  of  my  groans, 

And  night  and  day  the  fury  rends  my  frame, 

And  night  and  day  the  mystic  voices  speak, 

I  am  the  "Mad  Kassandra."     Would  indeed 

That  I  were  mad  and  happy,  so  I  were 

Unconscious  of  my  sad  pre-eminence  ! 

How  often  have  I  prayed?  for  I'm  not  proud — 


ISABELLA   COCKDURN  GILES.  165 

AVho  could  indeed  possess  it  and  be  proud  1 
Of  this  so  fatal  melancholy  gift — 
How  often  have  I  prayed  the  cruel  gods 
To  take  it  back  again,  and  make  me  dull 
And  blind  to  what  is  coming,  and  once  more 
A  common  daugliter  of  the  sons  of  men. 


ISABELLA  COCKBURN  GILES. 

[Of  North  Adelaide,  South  Australia.  The  Jubilee  referred  to  below 
is  that  of  South  Australia,  which  was  proclaimed  a  colony  on 
December  28,  1S37,  under  an  old  gum-tree  at  Glenelg,  South 
Australia.] 

A  JUBILEE  HYMN. 

God  of  the  Nations,  hear  our  song  of  praise  ! 

Almost  the  youngest  'mid  the  lands  are  we, 
Yet  time,  slow-circling  on  through  hours  and  days, 

Now  brings  to  us  our  Year  of  Jubilee. 
Hear  us,  0  Lord,  in  heaven  Thy  dwelling-place, 
And  on  the  hearts  that  praise  Thee  shed  Thy  grace. 

When  from  their  Northern  homes  our  fathers  came. 
Seeking  a  country,  like  the  men  of  yore — 

Leaving  behind  them  friends  and  dreams  of  fame — 
To  cast  their  anchor  on  this  distant  shore ; 

Thou,  0  their  God,  from  heaven  Thy  dwelling-place. 

Didst  then  behold,  and  guide  them  by  Thy  grace. 

Goodly  and  large  the  land  before  them  lay, 
From  far  blue  hills  outspread  to  azure  sea. 

And  it  became  a  nation's  on  the  day 

Our  fathers,  gathered  round  a  hoary  tree. 

Took  up  the  task  assigned  them  by  Thy  grace 

To  found  on  these  fair  shores  a  mighty  race. 


1 66  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Heavy  their  labours,  both  of  brain  and  hand, 

To  organise  the  State  and  tame  the  soil ; 
Unchecked  by  hardship  was  that  stalwart  band, 

Brave  hearts,  they  faltered  not  at  any  toil ; 
Thus,  through  their  courage,  and  Thine  aiding  grace, 
The  infant  State  took  life,  and  grew  apace. 

And  now  a  fair  white  city  crowns  the  rise, 

Glassing  her  beauties  in  the  lake  below ; 
Whilst  far  and  wide,  beneath  these  favouring  skies. 

Glad  homesteads  smile,  and  earth's  bright  trophies  glow. 
So,  bounteous  Lord,  from  heaven  Thy  dwelling-place. 
Hast  Thou  enriched  and  blest  us  by  Thy  grace. 

Thou  in  the  past  hast  helped  us ;  stretch  out  still 

Thy  mighty  hand.     In  this  our  Jubilee 
Grant  us  the  grace  supreme  to  do  Thy  will. 

We  shall  be  greatest  when  we  best  serve  Tliee, 
And  win  amongst  the  nations  honoured  place 
As  we  shall  keep  Thy  laws  and  seek  Thy  face. 


FRANCES  TYRRELL  GILL. 

[A  Victorian.  Has  never  published  a  volume,  but  has  been  a 
constant  contributor  to  the  press,  and  has  written  some  of 
the  most  beautiful  poems  which  have  appeared  in  Australian 
periodicals.] 

BEYOND  THE  SHADOWS,— LIGHT. 

Stealeth  sweetly  from  the  river 

Through  the  street  the  summer  breeze, 

Hither  sent  by  God,  the  giver 
Both  of  peace  and  care ;    He  sees 


FRANCES  TYRRELL  GILL.  167 

That  we  faint  'neath  burdens  heavy :  nearer  gleam  the 

angel  hands ; 
Smiles  of  welcome  on  dear  faces ;   cool  and  sweet   the 

shadow-lands. 

Faint  and  low  my  soul  was  drifting 

All  confused  'twixt  wrong  and  right ; 
"When  in  latter  days  uplifting 
"Wearied  eyes,  to  where  the  light 
Floods  the  eventide  ;  I  then  saw,  faintly  formed  in  dreamy 

air, 
Climes,  in  which  life  seemed  as  grand  as  ever  sought  in 
purest  prayer. 

Damp  and  pale  thy  brow,  my  brother, 
Death's  drear  voice  calls  thee  away  : 
On  this  earth  I  have  no  other 

Friend ;  but  through — all  through  to-day 
I  have  known  thy  hours  are  numbered, — see,  I  weep  no 

passionate  tears ! 
Clod  by   this   new  patience  tells   me,   needless   are   my 
trembling  fears. 

Dearest  !  I,  beside  thee  kneeling. 
While  thy  soul  is  lingering  yet. 
See  that  earth  hath  been  revealing 
God  to  us.     Thou  may'st  forget, 
"Wlien  the  grand  days  spread  before  thee,  that  we  'midst 

this  mortal  air 
Learned,  though  dimly,  truths  eternal,  side  by  side,  to 
perfect  there. 

Tired,  my  hnnds  now  cease  from  braiding 

This  rich  garment :  'twas  to  gain 
Food  and  wine,  to  liring  the  fading 

Life  to  thy  loved  form  again. 


1 68  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

All  too  late,  and  all  so  useless  !    Yet  my  heart  is  strangely 

calm  : 
Faded   now  its  fitful   fever — learning   this   far  grander 

psalm. 

See,  I  draw  aside  the  curtain 

From  the  casement  brown  and  old ; 
Trembleth  here  the  light  uncertain, 
Shadows  deep  our  room  enfold. 
Let  me  raise  thee  from  the  pillow  :  earth  seems  yet  so 

wondrous  fair — 
Sunlight  sweet  on  far  fields   falling,   e'en   though  seen 
through  mists  of  care. 

Past  tall  roofs  the  river  gleametli ; 

Down  the  bank  with  trees  o'erhung 
Slowly  lovers  ride — one  seemeth 
Soft  to  speak  the  tale  oft  sung  ; 
Reineth  in  his  steed's  arched  neck,  and  bendeth  low  his 

youthful  head, — 
Dreams  like  these  once  tilled  my  soul  before  sweet  hope 
of  life  lay  dead  ! 

See,  they  ride  into  the  hollow, 

'Midst  the  shadow  cool  and  deep  ; 
Day  is  sweet,  and  night  will  follow, 
Bringing  the  still,  dreamless  sleep  I 
Strangely  mingled  joys  and  sorrows,  on  this  fair  bewild'ring 

earth  ! 
Thou  and  I  wait  in  Death's  shadow, — from  the  street  come 
sounds  of  mirth  ! 

And,  perchance,  when  I  to-morrow 
Upward  look  through  depths  of  blue. 

In  this  stillness  I  may  borrow 

Comfort  from  the  thought  that  throu^jh 


FRANCES  TYRRELL  GILL.  169 

Summer  warmth  and  light  and  brilliance  thy  soul  lingers 

mine  to  meet, 
When  my  tired  limbs  rest  for  ever,  when  my  pulse  shall 

cease  to  beat. 

Look,  dear,  on  this  strange  sweet  painting 
Where  the  Christ  doth  patient  stand — 
Though  we've  been  with  hunger  fainting, 
This  was  treasured  still, — the  hand 
Gifted   with   such   wondrous    cunning   ages   since   hath 

turned  to  dust ; 
Yet  this  work  remains  a  token  of  the  power  he  held  in 
trust. 

Taking  these  attempts  unfinished 
(Faint  beginnings  here  of  life), 
There,  Avhere  trials  are  diminished. 
Work  again  !     Our  memories  rife 
With  sweet  sights  and  sounds  of  this  fair  earth  :   soft 

shadows  fall 
On  the  far-off  hills,  and  night  steals  near ;  and  tell  me,  is 
this  all  ? 

Clear,  thine  eyes  now  see  the  dawning 

Of  thy  grand  eternal  day  ; 
Nay,  I  will  not  sit  here  mourning, 
Blaming  God  for  my  brief  stay. 
Yet  some  days  I'll  watch  the  shadows  of  the  tall  house  on 

the  street, 
Thinking  still  of    long  past  times,  until  the  glad   hour 
when  we  meet. 

Kind  hands  brought  these  roses  hither, 

Richest  red  and  purest  white  ; 
Going  where  they  do  not  wither. 

Take  one,  for  in  fields  of  light 


I70  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

'Twill  recall  this  earth ;  and,  when  thou  com'st  to  meet 

me,  in  thy  hand 
Bring  this  rose Thy  lips  are  still !  thy  soul  hath  glided 

to  the  Land  ! 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

A  MONTH  ago  to-day  since  you  died ; 

Thick  clusters  of  blossom  I  place  on  your  tomb. 
Five  weeks  to-day  since  you  stood  by  my  side, 

And  showed  me  the  first  faint  almond-bloom ; 
It  passed  in  a  week  from  flower  to  leaf — 
Can  my  world  have  changed  in  a  time  so  brief  1 

You  have  gone  from  the  earth  that  you  loved  so  well, 

And  the  sky  to-day  is  so  deeply  blue  ; 
You  have  left  the  walks  and  the  ways  of  life, 

And  the  light  is  so  fair  on  that  far-off  view 
Of  the  sea  that  you  loved.     Yet  this  dumb  great  pain 
Like  a  weight  on  my  heart  through  each  day  hath  lain. 

The  swallows  are  cleaving  the  soft,  warm  air ; 

They  are  building  to-day  their  last  year's  nest ; 
You  always  stood  to  watch  them — there — 

In  your  favourite  place  that  looks  to  the  west. 
Yet  the  world  seems  to  go  on  just  the  same. 
As  though  Death  were  nothing,  or  only  a  name ! 

And  the  spring  is  coming  so  fast  this  year ; 

In  the  fresh,  wild  winds  I  can  almost  see 
The  branches  blowing  into  bud,  and  near 

Can  feel  the  awakening  life  in  tree 
And  flower,  through  the  rush  of  the  midnight  rain, 
Yet  through  all,  this  deadening  Aveight  of  pain  ! 


FRANCES  TYRRELL  GILL.  171 

I  know  there  is  more  e'en  yet  to  be  borne, 

For  the  days  will  pass,  and  the  roses  will  bloom ; 

The  deepening  flush  of  the  early  dawn. 

With  the  lengthening  light,  will  steal  through  the  room. 

But  the  anguished  cry  of  my  soul,  "Thou  art  gone," 

Will  but  keener  grow  with  each  summer's  morn. 

And  the  breeze,  alive  with  the  breath  of  the  sea, 

Will  come  sweeping  again  through  the  quaint  old  street : 

How  you  used  to  say  that  each  rustling  tree 

Was  filled  with  the  song  that  the  sea-breeze  fleet 

Had  brought  from  the  heart  of  the  sea  to  the  air : 

But,  ah  !  you  may  not  remember  there. 

\Miy,  the  silent  house  is  echoing  still 

With  the  tones  of  the  voice  it  knew  so  well, 

And  the  books  you  loved  still  send  a  thrill 
Because  of  your  fingers'  touch,  which  fell 

So  oft  on  each  poet-page,  while  the  rare 

Words  softly  floated  on  the  listening  air. 

And  they  tell  me  for  comfort  you've  gone  to  God ; 

As  though  God  were  more  there  than  here. 
Why,  just  to  watch  the  way  that  you  trod, 

More  than  of  any  promise  made  clear 
That  God  dwells  in  the  soul,  whose  stainless  days 
Are  sweet  in  His  sight  as  a  hymn  of  praise. 

And  we  are  not,  they  say,  too  far  apart 

For  you,  all  unseen,  to  approach  again  ; 
Nor  too  far,  Avhen  I  stand  with  despairing  heart, 

For  your  unfelt  touch  to  soothe  my  pain  ; 
Nor  with  unheard  speech,  from  your  fulness  of  light, 
Too  far,  as  of  old,  to  show  me  tlie  right. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

But  yet — ah,  me  !  what  a  gulf  betAveen 
The  warm  human  touch  of  the  living  hand 

And  this  remote  and  shadowy  sheen 
Of  a  love  still  felt  in  the  spirit-land, 

Between  the  living  love  of  the  olden  tone, 

And  this  spirit-speech  made  faintly  known  ! 

Yet  I  cannot  tell,  for  your  soul  may  yearn 

With  such  wealth  of  love  for  the  weal  of  mine, 

That,  drawn  by  you,  I  at  length  may  learn 
E'en  here,  to  reach  higher  and  nearer  to  thine. 

But  I  only  know  you're  beyond  my  call, 

And  that,  for  these  present  days,  is  all  in  all. 


SPRING'S  MESSENGERS  IN  AUSTRALIA. 

Eve  winds  awake  the  crocus-flower, 
The  faint  narcissus  dares  unfold 
Her  face  uncaring  of  the  cold  ; 
As  though  in  dream  she  heard  the  shower, 
And  breathed  the  sunshine  of  that  hour 
The  roses  may  behold. 

And  change  the  dear  birds'  voices  tell — 
As  new  song  takes  new  form  of  rhyme — ■ 
Not  these  the  notes  of  winter's  clime 
That  now,  with  brief  and  sudden  swell 
At  dawn,  the  lengthening  day  foretell. 
And  pleasant  nesting-time  ! 

Night  through,  the  fierce  storm  holds  its  way  ; 
With  morn  the  almond-blossom  blows ; 
Fair  blooms !  ye  bravely  do  unclose. 


FRANCES  TYRRELL  GILL.  173 

To  meet  or  rain  or  sun,  and  sway 
Your  slender  branches  to  the  play 
Or  rage  the  wild  wind  knows. 

0  loud-voiced  wind — (for  now  we  hear 
Still  other  tunes  within  thy  song 
Than  storm  resounding  loud  and  long) — 
Thon,  as  the  next  Day  draweth  near 
To  eve,  dost  fold  thy  wings,  and  clear 
And  low  dost  flute  along 

The  pathways  of  the  Night  so  sweet 

An  air  we  cannot  choose  but  list ! 

What  though  the  morn  bring  back  the  mist, 
Or  troubled  waves  in  strife  should  meet  1 
Again  those  spirit-tones  shall  greet 

Our  ears,  although  we  wist 

Not  all  their  speech  ;  nor  are  aware 
AVhat  from  beneath  the  sunset's  glow 
The  viewless  voyageur  may  show. 
A  something  doth  possess  the  air, 
That  through  the  earlier  day  did  wear 
A  look  of  unshed  snow  ! — 

A  something  far  too  fleet  and  fine 

For  naming.     Yet  it  still  may  bo, 

Unseen,  the  fair  Persephone 
May  yearly  seek  an  alien  shrine ; 
And  her  charmed  breath  may  be  the  sign 

To  wake  for  flower  and  tree. 


174  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


KEIGHLEY  GOODCHILD. 

[A  Victorian  by  birth,  son  of  John  Goodchild,  librarian  of  Echuca. 
Is  a  pressman.  Has  published  a  little  volume  entitled  lllio 
are  You?  (Advertiser  Office,  Echuca),  and  has  another  volume 
in  preparation.     Writes  under  the  nom-de-plume  of  Keighley.] 

WAIFS  WEDDING. 

There's  a  hush  of  Sabbath  about  the  place, 

The  puddlers'  horses  are  all  at  rest, 
The  children  for  once  are  clean  of  face, 

And  the  diggers  are  dressed  in  their  Sunday  best — ■ 
Then  a  sound  of  music  sweeps  o'er  the  land — 
'Tis  the  martial  strains  of  the  Coketown  band. 

It  seems  determined  to  shine  to-day, 

And  silence  for  ever  the  doubters'  sneers, 

As  with  mighty  lungs  the  members  play, 

And  the  air  is  cleft  with  the  children's  cheers. 

And  it  must  be  owned  that  it  does  look  smart 

As  it  drives  through  the  Lead  in  Watson's  cart. 

No  work  is  done  in  the  town  to-day — 

Indeed  the  feeling  has  been  so  strong. 
That  Ah  Yap  has  been  soused  in  some  puddler's  clay, 

By  Cockney  Billy  and  Tony  Long — 
For  the  heathen  no-saveed  the  great  event, 
And  to-day  to  his  work  as  usual  went. 

The  children  were  out  since  the  early  dawn. 
To  gather  the  flow'rs  of  the  heath  and  broom. 

The  bright  blue-bells  (the  eyes  of  Morn), 

And  the  wattle-spray  with  its  sweet  perfume ; 

For  the  wedding  of  Waif  takes  place  to-day, 

And  the  flow'rs  are  gathered  to  strew  the  wa}'. 


KEIGHLEY  GOODCHILD.  175 

IIow  strangely  the  digger-folks  are  clad  ! 

What  coats  come  out  of  a  style  antique  ! 
The  finery  almost  makes  one  sad, 

For  of  poverty  deep  it  seems  to  speak ; 
And  the  rusty  razor  has  left  its  trace 
In  bright  red  lines  on  the  digger's  face, 

Tlie  children  are  marshalled  two  by  two, 
And  follow  old  Jessop,  the  leader  bold 

(And  the  sight  brings  a  strange  unwonted  dew 
To  the  eyes  of  men  who  are  worn  and  old)  ; 

And  they  march  through  the  streets  of  the  joyous  town, 

To  where  "VVaif  is  awaiting  her  woman's  crown. 

Old  Torke,  with  a  mixture  of  grief  and  joy, 

Stands  ready  to  give  the  bride  away — 
For  happiness  ever  has  some  alloy ; 

'Tis  a  run  of  gold  through  a  bed  of  clay — 
And  with  weddings  there  must  be  a  sense  of  doubt 
As  to  how  the  wedding  may  yet  turn  out. 

IIow  lovely  Waif  looks  in  her  bridal  veil ! 

How  the  glistening  tears  become  her  cheeks  ! 
And  Charley  looks  well,  though  he's  rather  pale, 

As  the  all-important  words  he  speaks ; 
And  the  pastor  blesses  the  handsome  pair, 
And  adds  to  his  blessing  a  silent  prayer. 

Then  out  through  the  church,  now  hand  in  hand, 
As  in  future  they'll  travel  the  path  of  life. 

They  pass  through  the  porch  where  the  children  stand 
Strewing  flow'rs  for  the  path  of  the  new-made  wife — 

And  the  band  strikes  up,  playing  "  Cheer,  Boys,  Cheer," 

Having  strengthened  its  corporate  lungs  with  beer. 


176  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  there  we  will  leave  her,  for  all  unknown, 
Save  to  wives  themselves,  are  their  joys  or  cares ; 

The  peasant  or  queen  upon  her  throne 

Makes  or  mars  her  life  when  the  veil  she  wears — • 

Yet  with  youth  and  love,  on  the  wedding-day 

Heaven  don't  seem  quite  so  far  away. 


TOO  LATE. 

The  sun  went  down  with  a  crimson  glow. 
At  Fossicker's  Lead  on  Johnson's  Flat ; 

And  the  waters  of  Johnson's  Creek  were  low, 
Where  the  sturdy  craw-fishing  children  sat. 

The  barefooted  girls  drove  the  goats  along, 
And  carefully  tended  the  humble  stock ; 

And  the  notes  were  hushed  of  the  axe's  song. 
And  the  sounds  of  the  creaking  cradles'  rock. 

And  where  the  fires  of  the  burning-ofF 

Shone  like  fallen  stars  on  her  father's  land, 

Young  Walter  Huntly  and  Mary  Gough, 
On  a  fallen  log  sat  hand  in  hand. 

The  traces  of  tears  were  on  her  cheek, 

And  her  brow  was  drawn  into  lines  of  care. 

As  she  listened  to  what  the  youth  might  speak. 
With  a  growing  sense  of  a  dark  despair. 

"  0  Mary,"  he  said  and  his  voice  was  hoarse — 
For  he  pitied  the  girl  he  had  led  astray — 

"  I  am  sure  what  I've  said  is  the  wisest  course — 
What  folly  'twould  be  on  the  Lead  to  stay  ! 


KEIGHLEY  GOODCHILD.  177 

Look  np,  my  love,  with  a  pleasant  smile — 

Let  me  kiss  from  your  eyes  those  glist'ning  gems — • 

I  feel  I  am  certain  to  make  my  pile, 

From  the  news  that  has  come  from  the  splendid  Thames  1 

I'll  come  for  you,  darling,  indeed  I  will, 

As  soon  as  I  see  that  my  way  is  clear. 
Come,  dry  your  tears — what !  weeping  still  1 

You  know  you  are  mine,  what  need  you  fear  1 " 

And  when  next  the  sun  in  its  glory  shone 

On  the  drowsy  creek  and  deserted  claim. 
From  the  worn-out  Lead  the  youth  had  gone. 

And  the  girl  was  left  in  her  tears  and  shame. 

O  !  weary  the  waiting  week  after  week 

As  her  face  grew  haggard  and  wan  and  thin ! 

0  !  crimson  the  flush  on  her  sunken  cheek, 
"When  a  careless  word  seemed  to  hint  her  sin  ! 

O  I  weary  the  watching  day  after  day, 

0  !  dreary  the  toil  of  the  joyless  life — 
No  beaming  smile  for  the  children's  play — 

Their  tongues  could  wound  like  the  sharpest  knife. 

And  night  after  night,  with  hope  deferred, 

She  sleeplessly  wept  for  the  absent  man, 
And  yearned  for  the  loving  and  tender  word, 

That  should  save  her  through  life  from  the  social  ban. 

Time  came  when  the  trouble  could  not  be  hid, 
And  she  fled  at  the  sound  of  a  father's  curse  ; 

God  pardon  the  man  for  what  he  did ! — 
Thus  driving  the  girl  from  bad  to  worse. 

M 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  it  chanced  on  the  day  that  an  infant-form 
To  the  heart  of  a  mother  brought  sad  relief, 

That  a  ship  went  down  in  a  fearful  storm, 
Having  struck  in  the  night  on  a  sunken  reef. 

And  one  there  was  on  that  ship,  who  came 
In  haste  to  atone  for  a  wrong  he  had  done — 

But  the  sorrowing  girl  he  was  not  to  claim — 
He  sank,  Aveighed  down  with  the  gold  he'd  won. 

Some  wrongs  are  righted,  of  course,  we  know. 
But  it's  playing  with  Satan,  with  Hell  at  stake, 

To  think  we  can  sin  without  causing  woe. 
Or  shall  live  reparation  in  full  to  make ! 

And  the  girl  who  once  was  a  lovely  lass — 
A  pretty  bush-flower  to  delight  the  eye — 

Now  prowls  the  street  'neath  the  glaring  gas, 
And  looks  for  her  prey  in  the  passers-by. 

And  if  asked  where  the  Devil  finds  most  recruits 

To  people  the  vast  domains  of  Hell, 
I  should  say  from  the  ranks  of  the  selfish  brutes 

Who  flatter  the  conscience  by  meaning  well 


TOO  GOOD  TO  FIGHT. 

"We  come  of  a  goodly  race — 

The  finest  the  world  has  seen — 
With  a  hatred  of  all  things  base, 

And  a  loathing  of  all  things  mean ; 
But  this  world  is  a  world  of  change. 

And  we're  proud  of  our  stronger  light, 
And  the  ways  of  our  sires  were  strange — 

We  are  growing  too  good  to  fight. 


KEIGHLEY  GOODCHILD.  179 

But  with  something  of  sad  regret, 

I  look  back  on  the  primitive  man, 
Whose  body  was  firmly  set, 

And  who  lived  in  a  fighting  clan. 
"We're  wiser,  perhaps,  than  he. 

And  our  knowledge  is  far  more  bright ; 
But  I'd  like  just  for  once  to  see 

Those  men  who  could  dare  to  fight. 

Our  weapon's  the  slanderous  tongue, 

And  words  that  are  worse  than  blows 
Have  succeeded  the  gauntlet  flung. 

Or  the  blow  on  a  foeman's  nose ; 
And  there's  something  I  think  we've  lost 

In  this  beautiful  age  of  peace, 
And  we  pay  at  a  fearful  cost 

That  the  war  of  the  world  shall  cease. 

Now  the  cowards  alone  are  brave, 

In  their  own  despicable  way  ! 
We  tolerate  rogue  and  knave, 

And  the  dogs  are  having  their  day  ; 
And  women  may  be  defamed 

By  whoever  may  choose  to  write, 
And  mothers  and  maids  be  shamed — 

We  are  growing  too  good  to  fight. 

No  champions  have  wo  now, 

To  fight  for  the  weaker's  cause — 
The  tyranny  we  allow 

Is  protected  by  costly  laws ; 
And  the  doctrine  of  love  alone. 

And  forgiveness  for  numerous  times, 
Makes  the  wretched  to  starve  and  groan, 

And  covers  the  earth  with  crimes. 


l8o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  the  spirit  of  tolerance  wins, 

For  it  fits  with  our  slavish  fears ; 
And  we  each  have  onr  own  pet  sins, 

So  we  carefully  close  our  ears ; 
And  the  helpless  may  shriek  for  aid 

'Gainst  Mammon's  tremendous  might, 
And  although  we  are  not  afraid, 

We  are  really  too  good  to  fight. 

It's  Ho  !  for  the  springy  heath, 

Down  under  a  bright  blue  sky ; 
And  the  words — "  You  lie  in  your  teeth  1 " 

Then  smiting  both  hip  and  thigh. 
Now  the  vent  is  the  hateful  law 

For  the  righteous  anger  of  man. 
We  settle  disputes  with  jaw — 

Maybe  'tis  the  wisest  plan. 

And  peace  has  a  lovely  charm, 

And  we've  heard  of  the  coals  of  fire — 
You  shall  not  let  the  strong  do  harm, 

Is  something  I  more  admire. 
In  the  matter  of  turning  the  cheek 

One  can  act  as  it  seemeth  right, 
But  when  in  defence  of  the  weak 

'Twere  an  excellent  thing  to  fight. 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GOKDON. 

Vide  Introduction,  the  most  popular  of  Australian  poets,  son  of 
Captain  Adam  Gordon ;  was  born  at  Fayal,  one  of  the  Azores, 
in  1833,  and  educated  at  Cheltenham  College  (where  his  father 
was  teacher  of  Oriental  languages),  Woolwich,  and  Oxford, 
Went  to  Adelaide  in  the  ship  Julia  in  August  1853,  and  while 
on  the  voj'age  wrote  the  "Exile's  Farewell,"  quoted  below. 
Lived  chiefly  in  the  Mount  Gambier  District  of  South  Australia 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON.  iSi 

as  a  mounted  trocper,  &c.  ;  was  elected  to  the  South  Austra- 
lian Parliament  for  the  district  of  Victoria,  and  sat  1865-6. 
Went  to  Victoria,  and  lived  at  ^lelbourne  and  Ballarat 
from  1866  till  his  suicide  at  Brighton,  Victoria,  24th  June 
1870.  Was  the  most  famous  amateur  steeplechase  rider  in 
the  Colonies,  and  while  in  Melbourne  published  his  poems, 
"Sea-Spray  and  Smoke-Drift"  (1S67),  "Aslitaroth  "  (1867),  and 
"Bush  Ballads"  (1S70),  which  have  since  been  collected  into 
one  volume.  Many  of  his  poems  appeared  in  the  Australasian. 
Would  have  been  represented  as  fully  as  Kendall  had  not  the 
holders  of  the  copyright  of  his  volume  demanded  a  prepos- 
terous charge  for  each  poem  included,  thus  depriving  Gordon 
of  his  proper  place  in  such  a  volume.  The  "Exile's  Farewell " 
is  the  property  of  Mr.  Bentley,  and  the  fragment  belongs  to 
the  proprietors  of  the  Argus  and  Australasian,  to  which  papers 
the  editor  tenders  his  best  thanks  for  courteous  help  in  the 
compilation  of  this  work. 

"  D.  Mackay  "  (Wodonga)  writes  : — "  I  enclose  an  unfinished 
poem  of  A.  L.  Gordon's  which  appeared  in  the  Australasian 
after  bis  death.  I  have  not  seen  this  fi-agment  in  any  of  the 
editions  of  the  poems,  nor  heard  any  allusion  to  it  by  enthusi- 
astic admirers,  I  have,  therefore,  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  is  almost  unknown,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  it  inserted  in 
your  next  issue.  ] 

UNFINISHED  POEM  BY  THE  LATE  A.  L. 
GORDON. 

All  night  I've  heard  the  marsh-frog's  croak, 
The  jay's  rude  matins  now  prevail, 

The  smothering  fire  of  bastard  oak 
Now  bhizes  freshened  by  the  gale  ; 

And  now  to  eastward  far  away 

Beyond  the  range  a  tawny  ray 

Of  orange  reddens  on  the  grey, 

And  stars  are  waning  wan  and  pale. 

We  mustered  once  when  skies  were  red, 
Nine  leagues  from  here  across  the  plain, 

And  when  the  sun  broiled  overhead 
Rode  with  wet  heel  and  wanton  rein. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  wild  scrub  cattle  held  their  own, 
I  lost  my  mates,  my  mates  fell  blown  ; 
Night  came,  I  slept  here  all  alone  : 

At  sunrise  riding  on  again, 

I  heard  yon  creek's  refrain. 

Can  this  be  where  the  hovel  stood  ? 

Of  old  I  knew  the  spot  right  well : 
One  post  is  left  of  all  the  wood, 

Three  stones  lie  where  the  chimney  fell. 
Rank  growth  of  ferns  has  well-nigh  shut 
From  sight  the  ruins  of  the  hut. 
There  stands  the  tree  where  once  I  cut 

The  M  that  interlaced  the  L — 

What  more  is  left  to  tell  1 

Ay,  yonder  in  the  blackwood  shade, 

The  wife  was  busy  with  her  churn  ; 
The  sturdy  sun-burnt  children  played 

In  yonder  patch  of  tangled  fern. 
The  man  was  loitering  to  feed 
His  flock  on  yonder  grassy  mead  : 
And  where  the  wavelet  threads  the  weed 

I  saw  the  eldest  daughter  turn, 

The  stranger's  quest  to  learn. 

Shone,  gold-besprinkled  by  the  sun, 

Her  wanton  wealth  of  back-blown  hair. 
Soft  silver  ripples  danced  and  spun 

All  round  her  ankles  bright  and  bare. 
My  speech  she  barely  understood. 
And  her  reply  was  brief  and  rude, 
Yet  God,  they  say,  made  all  things  good 
At  first,  that  He  made  fair. 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON.  1S3 

[Note. — The  manuscript  here  is  rather  blurred  and  indistinct, 
and  probably  the  author's  words  are  not  accurately  copied,  as  the 
sense  is  rather  vague.] 

She  bore  a  pitcher  in  her  hand 

Along  that  shallow,  slender  streak 
Of  silver-coated  shelving  sand, 

That  splits  two  channels  of  the  creek  ; 
She  plunged  it  where  the  current  whirls. 
Then  poised  it  on  her  sunny  curls ; 
Waste  water  decked  with  sudden  pearls 

Her  glancing  arm  and  glowing  cheek — 

What  more  is  left  to  speak  ? 

It  matters  not  how  I  became 

The  guest  of  those  who  lived  here  then  ; 
I  now  can  scarce  recall  the  name 

Of  this  old  station ;  long  years,  ten 
Or  twelve  it  may  be,  have  flown  past, 
And  many  things  have  changed  since  last 
I  left  the  spot,  for  years  fly  fast, 

And  heedless  boys  grow  haggard  men 

Ere  they  the  change  can  ken. 

The  spells  of  those  old  summer  days 

With  glory  still  the  passes  deck. 
The  sweet  green  hills  still  bloom  and  blaze 

With  crimson,  gold,  and  purple  fleck. 
For  these  I  neither  crave  nor  care, 
And  yet  the  flowers  perchance  are  fair 
As  when  I  twined  them  in  her  hair, 

Or  strung  them  chainwise  round  her  neck — 

What  now  is  left  to  reck  ? 

The  pure,  clear  streamlet  undefiled 
Durgles  *  the  flowery  upland  yet ; 

*  ?  Gurgles  through. 


iS4  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

It  lisps  and  prattles  like  a  child, 

And  laughs  and  makes  believe  to  fret 
O'erflowing  rushes  rank  and  high ; 
And  on  its  dimpled  breast  may  lie 
The  lizard  and  the  dragon-fly. 


[Note. — The  manuscript,   which  is  carelessly  written   and  un- 
revised,  abruptly  leaves  off  here.] 


AN  EXILE'S  FAREWELL. 


The  ocean  heaves  around  us  still 

With  long  and  measured  swell, 
The  autumn  gales  our  canvas  fill, 

Our  ship  rides  smooth  and  well. 
The  broad  Atlantic's  bed  of  foam 

Still  breaks  against  our  prow  ; 
I  shed  no  tears  at  quitting  home, 

Nor  will  I  shed  them  now. 


II. 

Against  the  bulwarks  on  the  poop 

I  lean  and  watch  the  sun 
Eehind  the  red  horizon  stoop — 

His  race  is  nearly  run. 
Those  waves  will  never  quench  his  light, 

O'er  which  they  seem  to  close  ; 
To-morrow  he  will  rise  as  bright 

As  he  this  morning  rose. 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON.  185 


How  brightly  gleams  the  orb  of  day 

Across  the  trackless  sea  ! 
How  lightly  dance  the  waves  that  play 

Like  dolphins  in  our  lee  ! 
The  restless  waters  seem  to  say 

In  smothered  tones  to  me, 
How  many  thousand  miles  away 

My  native  land  must  be. 

IV. 

Speak,  ocean  !     Is  my  home  the  same, 

Now  all  is  new  to  me  ? 
The  tropic  sky's  resplendent  flame, 

The  vast  expanse  of  sea  ? 
Does  all  around  her,  yet  unchanged, 

The  well-known  aspect  wear? 

0  !  can  the  leagues,  that  I  have  ranged, 
Have  made  no  difference  there  1 

V. 

How  vivid  Recollection's  hand 
Recalls  the  scene  once  more  ! 

1  see  the  same  tall  poplars  stand 
Beside  the  garden-door ; 

I  see  the  bird-cage  hanging  still, 

And  where  my  sister  set 
The  flowers  in  the  window-sill — 

Can  they  be  living  yet  1 


Let  woman's  nature  cherish  grief, 
I  rarely  heave  a  sigh, 


i86  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Before  emotion  takes  relief 

In  listless  apathy, 
WTiile  from  my  pipe  the  vapours  curl 

Towards  the  evening  sky, 
And  'neath  my  feet  the  billows  whirl 

In  dull  monotony  ! 


VII. 

The  sky  still  wears  the  crimson  streak 

Of  Sol's  departing  ray  ; 
Some  briny  drops  are  on  my  cheek — 

'Tis  but  the  salt  sea-spray  ! 
Then  let  our  bark  the  ocean  roam, 

Our  keel  the  billows  plough, 
I  shed  no  tears  at  quitting  home, 

Nor  will  I  shed  them  now. 


AETHUE  GEEEN. 

[Of  Windarra,  Lauuceston,  Tasmania.     Has  published  a  volume 
entitled  Rose-leaves.^ 

THE  ANGEL-REAPER'S  CHOICE. 

An  angel-reaper,  with  a  two-edged  sword 

So  keen  and  bright, 
Stood  pensive  in  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

But  yesternight. 
The  sword  was  drawn,  yet  on  the  angel's  face 

A  radiant  smile 
Played  sweetly,  though  half  veiled  by  just  a  trace 

Of  sadnes-s,  while 


ARTHUR  GREEN.  1S-7 

Fondly  she  gazed  o'er  bud  and  blossom  near, 

Then  far  and  wide, 
As  if  she  sought  one  bloom  more  sweet,  more  dear, 

Than  all  beside. 

Two  rosebuds  grew  upon  one  parent  stem. 

The  angel  stood 
And  lingered  lovingly  awhile  to  gaze  on  them — 

They  seemed  so  good. 
Both  spotless  white,  and  pure  as  morning  dew, 

But  one  if  aught 
Of  greater  sweetness.     This  the  angel  knew 

Was  what  she  sought ; 
A  lovely  blossom  fairer  than  the  rest 

In  earth's  rich  store. 
And  meet  to  lay  upon  the  Saviour's  breast 

For  evermore. 

Then  swiftly,  tenderly,  with  snow-white  wings, 

Through  heav'n's  blue  dome 
She  bore  her  treasure  to  the  King  of  kings, 

To  home — sweet  home, 
r.ut  from  the  garden,  with  the  early  morn, 

A  sigh  so  great 
Arose — earth  seemed  (though  but  one  flower  was  gone) 

So  desolate. 

Tho  night  winds  wafted  upward  and  afar 

A  long,  low  moan, 
When  high  in  heav'n  above  a  new  bright  star 

Shone  out  alone ; 
And  from  that  star  a  little  angel  cried, 

"  Come  unto  me," 
While  golden  harps  resounded  far  and  wide 

Sweet  sympathy. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


HENRY  HALLOEAN,  C.M.G. 

[Of  Mowbray,  Ashfield,,  near  Sydney,  New  South  Wales,  the  patri- 
arch of  Australian  poets.  According  to  Henniker  Heaton's  Dic- 
tionary of  Australian  Dates,  born  at  Cape  Town,  April  6,  l8ii, 
where  his  father  was  then  Chaplain  to  the  Forces  and  Rector 
of  the  Grammar-School.  After  passing  some  years  in  England, 
came  out  to  New  South  Wales,  and  in  1S27  entered  the  Survey 
Department,  continuing  in  tlie  Civil  Service  of  New  South 
Wales  until  1876,  by  which  time  he  had  risen  to  be  Principal 
Under-Secretary.  Retired  in  1878,  on  a  pension,  after  fifty-one 
years'  service.  Has  written  many  pieces  of  poetry,  which  have 
from  time  to  time  appeared  in  the  Colonial  press,  and  published 
a  volume,  Poems,  Odes,  Songs.  Sydney  :  Turner  &  Henderson, 
1887.] 

A  LOVE-LYRIC. 

I  WISH  thou  wert  a  stem  of  roses, 

And  I  a  golden  bee,  to  sip 
The  honey-dew  that  now  reposes 

In  Lahny  kisses  on  thy  hp. 

I  wish  thine  eyes  were  violets  blue, 
And  I  a  wandering  western  breeze, 

To  press  thee  with  my  wings  of  dew, 
And  melt  them  into  ecstasies  ! 


I  wish  thou  wert  a  golden  curl. 

And  I  the  myrtle- wreath  that  bound  it ; 
I  wish  thou  wert  a  peerless  pearl. 

And  I  the  casket  to  surround,  it ! 

I  wish  thou  wert  a  lucid  star, 

And  I  the  atmosphere  about  thee  ! 

But  if  we  must  be  as  we  are. 

Dearest,  I  cannot  live  without  thee. 


HENRY  HALLORAN,  C.M.G. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

Little  Eddy  !  little  Eddy,  through  the  watches  of  the 

niglit 
Does  my  tortured  heart  turn  to  thee  in  its  anguish  and 

affiright ; 
And  I  see  thee  starkly  lying  with  the  foam  upon  thy 

lips, 
And  thy  beauty  fading,  fading  in  Death's  terrible  eclipse. 

Little  Eddy  !  little  Eddy,  yet  upon  thy  brow  there  lies 
Such  a  look  of  quiet  transport   as   is   worn   beyond  the 

skies  ] 
Didst  thou  in  that  fatal  moment  look  the  veil's  dim  mystery 

through, 
Winning  to  that  angel  forehead  something  of  the  blissful 

view  1 

Something  that  to  aching  bosoms  should  this  consolation 

give, 
"Where  the  Shepherd  leads  His  loved  ones  does  our  little 

lamb  still  live ; 
In  the  sweet  green  pastures  resting,  where  the  living  waters 

flow, 
Does  he  live  whom  we  so  wildly,  vainly  weep  for  here 

below. 

But  that  little  chair  is  empty — doth  the  cot  the  sleeper 

lack? 
On  the  wall  a  cap  hangs  idly — will  the  wearer  not  come 

back? 
AVill  the  jocund  voice  that  greeted  fondly  every  eve  and 

morn 
Never  speak  again  to  make  our  lonely  bosoms  less  forlorn  '^ 


I90  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"When  the  spring  birds  wake  the  morning  with  their  sweet 

and  tender  cries, 
Shall  we  hear  that  voice  of  music  echoing  from  beyond 

the  skies  1 
When  the  buds  and  flowers  sweeten  all  our  saddened  home 

around, 
Sweeter  thoughts  of  him  shall  gather — him  our  darling 

lost  and  found. 

O'er  the  rugged  hill-side  toiling,  to  the  valley  faint  and 

dim, 
Will  our  wearied  steps  still  bear  us,  drawing  nearer  still 

to  him — 
Near   to  him   our   ravished   treasure,   whom  we  vainly 

thought  to  hold, 
Hoping,  fearing — fearing,  hoping,  e'en  as  misers  with  their 

gold. 


ODE 


ON     THE     ANNIVERSARY     OP     THE    BIRTHDAY    OF     HER    MOST 
GRACIOUS   MAJESTY   QUEEN   VICTORIA,    24TH   MAY    1 873. 


The  one  star  in  the  firmament, 

Still  shining  through  ethereal  space, — 
Lustre  and  purity  are  blent 

In  its  divinely-beaming  face  ; 
The  one  star  in  the  firmament,— 
Which  blind  decay 
Wears  not  away, 
Serenely  shining  still  o'er  ocean  waste  and  continent. 

II. 
The  Sun,  with  his  imperial  caresses, 
Fills  full  of  light  forest  and  ocean-cave, 


HENRY  HALLORAN,  C.M.G.  191 

Gladdens  man's  heart  in  its  forlorn  recesses, 

Brightens  the  mountain-slope  and  whirling  wave : 
The  Sun  with  his  imperial  caresses 
Showers  from  above 
His  potent  love, 
Till  the  earth  rings  with  joy — blessing  the   light   that 
blesses. 


Orb  of  majestic  splendour, 

Meridian  and  serene, 
The  loyal  heart,  as  chivalrous  as  tender, 
In  thee  beholds  irradiate,  its  Queen. 
Orb  of  majestic  splendour  ! 
Enthroned  Eight ! 
Enthroned  Might ! 
Thy  people  look  to  Thee,  by  might  of  right — Defender. 


Thy  banner  floats  unquestioned  on  the  deep. 

For  honour  gathers  in  its  ample  fold ; — 
And  glory,  which  seems  perilous  to  keep. 

The  nations  own,  and  wonder  to  behold : 
Thy  banner  floats  unquestioned  on  the  deep ; — 
Who  bars  its  way, 
Or  dreads  its  sway — 
Still  sheltering  the  oppressed,  the  fallen,  and  those  who 
weep? 


The  shock  of  armies  which  have  filled  the  years 
With  desolation  and  uncounted  graves, 

With  widows'  groans  and  helpless  orphans'  tears 
In  ruined  cities  ;  by  the  sounding  waves  : — 


192  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  shock  of  armies  which  have  filled  the  years 

With  agony 

That  may  not  die, — 
Within  her  happy  homes, — far  off — Britannia  hears. 

VI. 

Thy  starry  daughter  of  the  western  sky. 

Scourged  by  her  fervours  into  conflict  dire, — 
Bleeding  at  every  pore, — has  questioned  why 

Thou  didst  abstain,  and  answer  her  desire  : — 
Thy  starry  daughter  of  the  western  sky — 
Welded  by  strife, — 
In  mightier  life. 
May  now  the  nations,  and  e'en  fate,  defy. 

VII. 

The  dews  of  heaven  may  wash  away  the  stain 

Of  blood  from  thy  bowed  Lilies,  stricken  France, 
Whose  heart  misled  thee  into  dreams  again 

Of  cities  trampled  in  thy  dread  advance  : — 
The  dews  of  heaven  may  wash  away  the  stain, 
And,  thou  more  wise 
In  thy  emprise, 
May'st  quiet  thy  proud  heart, — nor  God's  decree  disdain 

VIII, 

The  Lord  of  Hosts,  who  guards  a  righteous  land, 

Still  shield  thee,  Britain  !  although  nations  shake ; 
Still  hold  thee  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 

And  spare  thy  people  for  thy  servant's  sake  ! 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  who  guards  a  righteous  land, 
Shield  thee  from  foes, 
Though  Northern  snows 
See  millions  gathering  under  one  command  ! 


HENRY  HALLORAN.  191 


Thy  people  multiply  in  many  a  clime, 

Bearing  within  their  hearts,  0  Queen  !  for  thee 
A  love  which  loyalty  has  made  sublime, — 

A  tower  of  strength,  in  coming  years  to  be  :  — 
Thy  people  multiply  in  many  a  clime, 
And  at  thy  word 
Withdraw  the  sword. 
And  pay  the  debt  of  sons,  in  God's  appointed  time. 


And  on  this  day,  thy  day,  the  breath  of  love 

Fills  every  loyal  bosom  at  thy  name, — 
And  "  Bless  her  !  "  echoes  every  sound  above, 

"  Preserve  her,  Heaven,  and  guard  her  queenly  famt-, ! ' 
And  on  this  day,  thy  day,  the  breath  of  love 
Fills  every  heart 
In  camp  and  mart, — 
And  floats  above  life's  ills  with  pinions  of  the  dove. 

XI. 

The  eyes  of  beauty  with  a  gentler  glow, 

The  ruddy  cheek  of  youth  with  ruddier  flame, 
Repeats  the  blessing, — while  the  head  of  snow 

Bows  in  accord  of  love,  and  names  thy  name : 
The  eyes  of  beauty,  and  a  gentler  glow, 
Bless  those  who  own, 
Beneath  thy  throne, 
Thee,  as  their  liege — thy  foes,  their  only  foe. 

XII. 

A  summer  wilderness  'midst  sunny  seas, 

Thronged  with  thy  subjects,  hears  the  psean  loud ; 

N 


194  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  God  bless  the  Queen  ! "  is  borne  on  every  breeze, 

"God  bless  the  Queen!"  the  hope  and  prayer  avowed 
A  summer  wilderness  'midst  sunny  seas, 

With  stores  untold 

Of  glittering  gold, — 
Of  flocks,  and  herds,  and  vines,  and  honey-bearing  bees. 


JUBILEE  ODE. 

There  is  sorrow  for  the  dead  who  perish  for  the  living. 
Though  the  living  have  the  gain  achieved  by  those  who 
die ; 
The  soldier  has  most  joy,  for  his  joy  is  in  the  giving, 

And  the  blessing  that  he  gives  his  guerdon  will  suppl}'. 
His  red  blood  is  the  wine  which  his  country  will  re- 
member 
When  the  suns  of  June  look   down  on  his  solitary 
grave ; 
Or  when  the  howling  winds  of  a  pitiless  December 

Sweep  the  gnarded  shores  of  Britain,  which  he  proudly 
died  to  save. 
They  gave  their  lives  ungrudging,  as  the  widow  in  old 
story 
Gave  "  her  all,"  two  "  mites,"  nor  grudged  she  all  her 
princely  bounty  gave ; 
Their  names,  like  Gordon's  name,  shall  live  in  chronicles 
of  glory — 
The  memory  should  never  die,  'midst  brave  men  of  the 
brave. 


HENRY  HALLORAN.  195 

IN   MEMORIAM 

OP  THE   DEATH   OF 

HIS  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  PRINCE  LEOPOLD, 
Ddke  of  Albany. 

The  lightning  rends  the  goodly  tree, 
Whereon  the  sunbeams  loved  to  play ; 
Through  which  the  starbeams  found  their  way ; 

But  who  may  read  God's  dark  decree  ? 

He  spares  the  tree  of  lowly  form, 

Through  years  that  seem  without  an  end, — 
In  every  wind  to  sway  and  bend, 

No  mark  for  lightning  nor  for  storm. 

Through  toilsome  years,  on  scanty  fare. 

The  artist  and  the  poet  seem 

Dimly  to  live  within  their  dream ; 
Time  leaves  them  with  their  pleasant  care. 

Time  brings  into  a  perfect  grace 

The  marvel  of  the  stream  and  hills ; 

And  Time  the  perfect  volume  fills 
With  words  that  thrill  the  human  race. 

Time !  that  didst  shape  the  cedar  fair, 
Wilt  thou  not  bring  to  her  who  grieves 
More  than  the  glory  of  its  leaves, 

A  people's  love  and  grief  and  prayer  1 

We  are  but  shadows  one  and  all ; 

The  solid  earth  on  which  we  move 

Is  nothing,  seen  by  saints  above ; 
So  small^ — but  still  man  is  not  small. 


196  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

His  days  are  written  in  Thy  sight, 
"Who  rulest  days  and  rulest  men ; 
And  in  Thy  will  he  finds  Thy  when, 

And  knows  that  all  he  finds  is  right. 

Thy  Eoyal  student's  days  were  led 
In  ways  that  make  the  day  a  year, 
Fulfilled  with  intellectual  cheer 

Whereon  all  noble  minds  are  fed. 

A  thirty  years  of  life  like  his 

Is  more  than  threescore  years  and  ten 
Of  vain  pursuits  of  selfish  men, 

Who  find  a  path  'twere  wise  to  miss. 

So  shall  we  say  his  life  was  life, 
Extended  to  a  noble  span ; 
A  life  that  was  a  life  for  man, 

Worthy  of  mother  and  of  wife. 


CHAELES  HAEPUE. 

["The  grey  forefather  of  Australian  poetr}',"  was  boru  at  Windsor, 
New  South  Wales,  in  iSii  or  1812.  His  father  was  a  school- 
master, and  gave  the  future  poet  all  the  education  he  ever 
received.  In  1853  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  among 
which  were  some  sonnets  which  won  the  admiration  of  the 
"celebrated  Sydney  lawyer,"  Mr.  Robert  Lowe,  now  Viscount 
Sherbrooke.  He  at  this  time  contributed  to  the  Empire,  the 
least  successful  and  most  brilliant  of  all  Australian  papers, 
as  it  has  been  described.  Returning  to  the  "  Bush,"  Harpur 
married  Miss  Mary  Doyle,  a  settler's  daughter,  by  whom  he 
had  five  children.  He  died  in  1S68,  comparatively  un- 
recognised and  unknown ;  and  recently  his  fame  has  widely 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  197 

increased,  mainly  o^ing  to  an  admirable  edition  of  his 
poems,  published  by  ^Ir.  George  Robertson.  Charles  Harpur 
was,  however,  greatly  admired  by  Kendall,  who  addressed  two 
set  of  beautiful  but  simple  verses  to  his  memory.] 


DORA. 

It  was,  I  well  remember,  the  merry  sjiringtime  when 
Young  Dora  in  the  eventide  came  singing  up  the  glen ; 
And  the  song  came  up  the  glen,  till  one  oft-repeateJ 

part 
In  a  subtle  stream  of  melody  ran  glowing  through  my 

heart. 

A  fond  desire  long  cherished,  till  then  I  might  control — 
Till    then — but  0  !   that  witching    strain    swift  drew  it 

from  my  soul ; 
Swift  drew  it  from  my  soul,  and  she  did  not  say  me  nay, 
And  the  world  of  love  was  all  the  world  to  us  that  happy- 
day. 

I'm  happy  now  in  thinking  how  happy  I  was  then, 
A^^len  towards  the  glowing  west  my  love  went  homeward 

down  the  glen ; 
"Went  homeward  down  the  glen,  while  my  comfort  surer 

grew, 
Till  methought  the  old-faced  hills  all  looked  as  they  were 

happy  too. 

All  happy  for  that  Dora  and  I  so  happy  were  ! 

All  happy,  for  that  human  love  had  breathed  its  spirit 

there  1 
Had  breathed  its  spirit  there,  and  had  made  them  conscious 

grow 
Of  the  part  they  bore   in  that  sweet  time,  that  happy 

long  ago. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


ONWARD. 

Have  the  blasts  of  sorrow  worn  thee, 
Have  the  rocks  of  danger  torn  thee, 
And  thus  shifted,  wreck-like  drifted, 
Wouldst  thou  find  a  port  in  time  1 
Vain  the  quest !     That  word  sublime — 
God's  great  one  word, 
Silent  never,  pealeth  ever, 
Onward  ! 

Hast  thou  done  all  loving  duty, 
Hast  thou  clothed  thy  soul  with  beauty. 
And  wouldst  rest  then,  wholly  blest  then, 
In  some  sunny  lapse  of  time  1 
Vain  the  hope  !     That  word  sublime — 
God's  great  one  word. 
Silent  never,  pealeth  ever, 
Onward  ! 

Hast  thou  won  the  heart  of  glory, 
Hast  thou  charmed  the  tongue  of  story, 
And  wouldst  pause  then  for  applause  then, 
Underneath  the  stars  of  time  1 
Vain  the  lure  !     That  word  sublime — 
God's  great  one  word, 
Silent  never,  pealeth  ever, 
Onward  ! 

Truth  and  virtue  hast  thou  wrought  for, 
Faith  and  freedom  hast  thou  fought  for, 
And  then  shrinkest,  for  thou  thinkest 
Paid  is  all  thy  debt  in  time  ? 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  199 

Vain  tlie  thought !     That  word  sublime — 
God's  great  one  word, 
Silent  never,  pealeth  ever, 
Onward ! 

From  endeavour  to  endeavour, 
Journeying  with  the  hours  for  ever, 
Or  aspiring,  or  acquiring 
This,  O  man,  is  life  in  time. 
Urged  by  that  primal  word  sublime — 
God's  great  one  word, 
Silent  never,  pealing  ever, 
Onward  ! 


TO 


Wno  would  not  be  a  poet  1     Thus  I  read 
In  thy  proud  sonnet,  my  poetic  friend ; 
And  unto  this  my  full  assent  was  given : 
"  There  is  not,  cannot  be,  under  all  heaven, 
Aught  happier  in  itself  than  the  witch,  Poetry." 

But  '*  Who'd  not  be  a  poet  1 "     Here  I  pause 
Forebodingly,  my  poet  friend, — because 
"  To  see  all  beauty  with  his  gifted  sight," 
To  love,  like  him,  with  all  the  soul, 
To  be,  when  life  is  morning  bright, 
The  very  creature  of  delight — 

Delight  beyond  control, — 
Is  still  to  be  in  like  degree. 

Too  sensible  of  misery 
And  loss  and  slight,  and  all  the  weeping  shapes 
of  dole. 


)o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  this  is  truth,  too,  that  with  saddened  heart 
Oft  must  he  from  his  fellows  live  apart ; 
For  how  can  men  whose  every  breath  of  life 
Is  drawn  in  the  hot  air,  and  'mid  the  strife 
Of  pettiest  interests,  have  a  kindred  heart 
With  him  who  hath  built  heavenward  and  apart. 
The  structures  of  his  mind,  and  looking  thence 
Over  this  world-thronged  universe  immense, 
Is  wont  all  such  embroilments  to  deplore 
As  light-obscuring  vapours — nothing  more? 
"What  ladder  of  experience  can  they  build 
To  mount  with — i;p,  into  a  nature  filled 
With  beauty,  or  by  mighty  truths  inspired, 
Or  one  even  with  a  bold  ambition  fired  ? 
But  least  of  all  in  such  men  can  there  be 
Devotions  chiming  into  sympathy 
AVith  some  pure  soul,  unsuccoured  and  alone, 
Struggling  in  weariness  unwearied  on  — 
Unwearied  day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Towards  the  far  Mecca  of  its  faith  alway. 

Yet  thus  the  poet,  armed  only  with  the  right. 

To  life's  dishonest  battle  oft  must  come, 

To  front  instead  of  valour,  mean  despite, 

With  envy  aye  in  emulation's  room, 

Blotting  heaven's  sacred  light ! 

To  see  unblushing  fortune's  minions  doom 

To  obloquy  through  some  repute  unholy, 

Or  to  some  vile  and  miserable  estate, 

All  such  as  would  not  trample  on  the  lowly, 

And  basely  glorify  the  falsely  great. 

Yet  if  a  thought  like  this 

Should  mar  at  times  thy  tuneful  bliss, 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  201 

Stronger  within  thine  earnest  will 

Be  the  spirit  of  song,  that  still 

Thou  niayest  sing  of  eloquent  eyes 

That  are  of  sunny  thoughts  the  ever  sunny  skies ; 

Sweet  dreams  that  swarm  round  honeyed  lips, 

Like  honey-loving  bees ; 

Glad  birds,  fresh  flowers,  clear  streams,  and  trees 

All  starry-bright  with  golden  pips ; 

Or,  with  a  loud,  bold  chime. 

Sing  of  that  braver  time, 

"When  world-wide  justice  from  her  Alpine  chair 

Shall  read  at  length  in  the  rich  reddening  skies 

The  gospel  of  her  advent,  and  declare 

The  sacred  sign  of  her  epiphany  there, 

Amid  the  purple  dyes  ; 

"While  all  true  men,  the  bravely  wise. 

Shall  seek  her  there  with  fearless  feet  and  free, 

"Where  the  prophet- peaks  arise 

Out  of  the  shattering  mist,  the  phantom  sea 

Of  old  iniquity  ! 

Through  dense  and  rare,  shall  seek  her  there, 

Breathing  with  iron  lungs  the  clear  keen  mountain  air 

Of  a  supreme  up-climbing,  God-great  liberty. 

Then  envy  not  the  splendid  wretchedness 

Of  Mammon's  dupes  !     Sing  thy  great  rhymes 

For  those  diviner  spiritual  times 

Our  country  yet  shall  know,  and,  wisely  knowing,  bless. 


Downward,  through  the  blooming  roofage 

Of  a  lonely  forest  bower. 
Come  the  yellow  sunbeams, — falling 

Like  a  burning;  shower  : 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

So  through  heaven's  starry  ceiling, 
To  the  hermit  soul's  abode, 

Comes  the  Holy  Spirit, — earthward 
Raying  down  from  God. 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  ROCK. 

I  SATE  upon  a  lonely  peak 
A  backwood  river's  course  to  view, 
And  watched  the  changing  shadows  freak 
Its  liquid  length  of  gleaming  blue. 
Streaked  by  the  crane  slow  gliding  o'er, 
Or  chequering  to  the  leafy  roar 
Of  woods  that  'neath  me  grew, 
Or  curdling  dark,  as  high  o'erhead 
The  gathering  clouds  before  the  sounding  breezes 
fled. 

Straight  I  bethought  how  once  the  scene 
Spread  in  its  primal  horror  there, 
When,  but  some  lone  bird's  weary  threne 
Or  bowlings  from  the  wild  dog's  lair, 
Or  rush  of  startled  kangaroo, 
As  near  some  stealthy  savage  drew 
With  hunger  in  his  air. 
Or  from  the  stream  some  murmured  sound 
Broke  the  dread  slumbrous  calm  of  solitude  pro- 
found. 

A  change  came  o'er  my  thoughts — behind 
A  length  of  coming  time  I  threw, 
Till  round  me,  on  that  rock  reclined, 
Its  folds  prophetic  vision  drew ; 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  203 

And  purpling,  like  the  morning,  gave 
^line  eyes  of  Freedom's  birth  to  have 

A  seeming  ante-view  ; 

As  haply  in  brave  promise  stole 
Ilis  country's  purer  weal  o'er  youthful  Hampden's 
soul. 

All  round  me  villages  upgrew 

At  once,  with  orchards  clumped  about, 

And  oft  between,  tall  pine-rows  through. 

Some  mansion's  pillared  porch  looked  out. 

And  thickening  up  from  alleys  green. 

Where  rustic  groups  in  dance  were  seen. 

Came  merry  cry  and  shout ; 

While  from  tall  groves  beyond,  the  cheer 

Of  maiden's  laughter  soft,  broke  in  rich  wavelets  near. 

And  in  the  gusts  that  overpassed 

The  stir  of  neighbouring  cities  came, 

Whose  structures  in  the  distance  massed 

Proclaimed  their  opulence  and  fame. 

O'er  fields  of  ripening  plenty  viewed. 

Or  hills  with  white  flocks  fleeced,  and  strewed 

With  herds  that  grazed  the  same ; 

While  on  the  paven  roads  between 

The  crowding  chariots  came  with  rapid-rolling  din. 

Now  gaining  depth,  the  vision  lay 

Around  my  being  like  a  law. 

So  that  ray  spirit  might  not  say 

But  all  was  real  that  I  saw ; 

I  mark  a  youth  and  maiden,  pressed 

By  love's  sweet  power,  elude  the  rest, 

And  as  they  nearer  drew 

I  list  the  vow  that  each  imparts 

Folded  within  the  spells  of  harmonising  hearts. 


204  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

But  suddenly  a  grim-faced  sire 
Strides  like  a  fatal  wraith  between 
With,  that  cold  whiteness  in  his  ire 
Which  in  the  bad  alone  is  seen .' 
Alas  !  this  world  can  never  be 
A  poet's  Eden  utterly — 
'Twill  be  what  it  hath  been  ! 
So  long  as  love's  rich  heart  is  red 
And  beauty's  eyes  are  bright — so  long  shall  tears 
be  shed. 

They  pass ;  and  lo  !  a  lonely  boy 

With  wandering  steps  goes  musing  by ; 

Glory  is  in  his  air,  and  joy 

And  all  the  poet  in  his  eye ! 

And  now,  whilst  rich  emotions  flush 

His  happy  face,  as  cloud-hues  blush 

In  morning's  radiant  sky, 

He  sings — and  to  the  charmful  sound 

Troops  of  angelic  shapes  throng  into  being  round. 

But  'neath  a  sombre  cypress-tree. 

And  clad  in  garbs  of  kindred  gloom, 

A  mother  and  her  child  I  see 

Both  mourning  o'er  a  lonely  tomb  ! 

Ah  !  life  hath  ever  been  a  brief 

Mixed  dream  of  glory  and  of  grief — 

Its  earliest,  latest  doom  ! 

That  heart  in  which  love's  tides  first  ran 

Descends  with  all  its  risks  to  every  child  of  man. 

'Now  turning  see,  with  locks  all  grey, 
A  form  majestic ;  wisdom  true 
Illumes  his  brow — the  power  to  weigh 
All  worth,  and  look  all  semblance  through ; 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  2C5 

And  stately  youths  of  studious  mien, 
Children  of  light,  with  him  are  seen, 
His  auditory — who 
Attend  the  speaking  sage  along, 
And  hearken  to  the  wisdom  of  his  manna-dropping 
tongue. 

And  now  doth  his  large  utterances  throw 
A  sacred  solemnising  spell 
O'er  scenes  that  yet  no  record  know, 
Round  names  that  now  I  may  not  tell  ; 
But  there  was  one — too  long  unknown  1 
Whereat,  as  with  a  household  tone 

Upon  the  ear  it  fell, 
Each  listener's  speaking  eyes  were  given 
To  glisten  with  a  tear,  and  turn  awhile  to  heaven. 

Thus  night  came  on  ;  for  hours  had  flown, 
And  yet  its  hold  the  vision  kept, 
Till  lulled  by  many  a  dying  tone, 
I  laid  me  on  the  rock  and  slept ! 
And  now  the  moon  hung  big  between 
Two  neighbouring  summits  sheathed  with  sheen — 
When  all  with  dews  bewept, 
And  roused  by  a  loud  coming  gale, 
I  sought  our  camp  fire's  glow,  deep  in  the  darkling 
vale. 


LOVE  DREAMING  OF  DEATH. 

I  DREAMT  my  little  boys  were  dead 
And  I  was  sitting  wild  and  lone  ; 

On  closed  unmoving  knees  my  head 
Lay  rigid  as  a  stone. 


2o6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  thus  I  sat  without  a  tear, 

And  though  I  drew  life's  painful  breath, 

All  life  to  me  seemed  cold  and  drear, 
And  comfortless  as  death  : 

Sat  on  the  earth  as  on  a  bier, 
Where  loss  and  ruin  lived  alone, 

"Without  the  comfort  of  a  tear — 
Without  a  passing  groan. 

And  there  was  stillness  everywhere, 
Ensphering  one  wide  sense  of  woe — 

The  stillness  of  a  world's  despair, 
Whose  tides  had  ceased  to  flow. 

Yea,  so  eternal  seemed  my  grief, 

Time  moved  not,  neither  slow  nor  fast, 

Nor  recked  I  whether  periods  brief 
Or  centuries  had  passed. 

It  was  as  if  to  marble  cold 
My  loss  had  petrified  the  air, 

And  I  was  shut  within  its  hold. 
Made  deathless  by  despair — 

Made  deathless  in  a  world  of  death. 
There  ever  sitting  wild  and  lone, 

With  all  but  one  pent  painful  breath 
Transmuted  into  stone. 

And  more  the  gorgon  horror  crushed 
With  dry  petrific  pressure  in. 

Till  forth  my  waking  spirit  rushed 
With  agonising  din  ! 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  207 

And  0  what  joy  it  was  to  wake — 
To  cast  that  haggard  dream  awaj', 

And  from  its  stony  influence  break 
Into  the  living  day  ! 

I  sought  the  objects  of  my  care, 

And  felt,  while  I  embraced  the  twain, 

How  much  even  from  a  dream's  despair 
A  Father's  love  may  gain. 


When  this  dream-record  long  ago 
I  penned,  how  little  did  I  dream 

That  yet  a  distant  coming  woe 
Was  shadowed  in  its  theme  ! 

For  ah  !  of  that  beloved  twain 

The  lips  of  one,  then  warm  with  breath, 
I  since  have  kissed,  unkissed  again, 

For  they  were  cold  in  death — 

A  swift  wild  death !  and  when  I  think 
Of  all  that  I  have  lost  thereby, 

My  heart  hath  pangs  that  seem  to  drink 
All  Mara's  waters  dry  ; 

Yea,  pangs  that  would  my  life  destroy. 
Did  faith  not  whisper  oft  between  : 

"  Peace  !  sire  of  an  immortal  boy 
Beyond  this  mortal  scene." 


2o8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

A  MIDSUMMER'S  NOON  IN  THE  AUSTRALIAN 
FOREST. 

KoT  a  sound  disturbs  the  air, 
There  is  quiet  everywhere ; 
Over  plains  and  over  woods 
What  a  mighty  stillness  broods  ! 

All  the  birds  and  insects  keep 
Where  the  coolest  shadows  sleep  ; 
Even  the  busy  ants  are  found 
Resting  in  their  pebbled  mound  ; 
Even  the  locust  clingeth  now 
Silent  to  the  barky  bough  : 
Over  hills  and  over  plains 
Quiet,  vast  and  slumbrous,  reigns. 

Only  there's  a  drowsy  humming 
From  yon  warm  lagoon  slow-coming  : 
'Tis  the  dragon-hornet — see  ! 
All  bedaubed  resplendently 
Yellow  on  a  tawny  ground — 
Each  rich  spot  not  square  nor  round, 
Rudely  heart-shaped,  as  it  were 
The  blurred  and  hasty  impress  there 
Of  a  vermeil-crusted  seal 
Dusted  o'er  with  golden  meaL 
Only  there's  a  droning  where 
Yon  bright  beetle  shines  in  air. 
Tracks  it  in  its  gleaming  flight 
With  a  slanting  beam  of  light 
Rising  in  the  sunshine  higher, 
Till  its  shards  flame  out  like  fire. 

Every  other  thing  is  still. 
Save  tlie  ever-wakeful  rill, 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  209 

Whose  cool  murmur  only  throws 
Cooler  comfort  round  repose  ; 
Or  some  ripple  in  the  sea. 
Of  leafy  boughs,  where,  lazily 
Tired  summer,  in  her  bower 
Turning  with  the  noontitle  hour, 
Heaves  a  slumbrous  breath  ere  she 
Once  more  slumbers  peacefully. 

O  'tis  easeful  here  to  lie 
Hidden  from  noon's  scorching  eye, 
In  this  grassy  cool  recess 
Musing  thus  of  quietness. 


WORDS. 

"Words  are  deeds.     The  words  we  hear 

May  revolutionise  or  rear 

A  mighty  state.     The  words  we  read 

May  be  a  spiritual  deed 

Excelling  any  fleshly  one, 

As  much  as  the  celestial  sun 

Transcends  a  bonfire,  made  to  throw 

A  light  i;pon  some  raree-show. 

A  simple  proverb  tagged  with  rhyme 

May  colour  half  the  course  of  time ; 

The  pregnant  saying  of  a  sage 

May  influence  every  coming  age  ; 

A  song  in  its  effects  may  be 

^lore  glorious  than  Thcrmopyloe, 

And  many  a  lay  that  schoolboys  scan 

A  nobler  feat  than  Inkerman. 


2IO  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


THE  CLOUD. 

One  summer  morn,  out  of  the  sea- waves  wild, 
A  speck-like  cloud,  the  season's  fated  child, 
Came  softly  floating  up  the  boundless  sky, 
And  o'er  the  sun-parched  hills  all  brown  and  dry. 

Onward  she  glided  through  the  a2aire  air, 
Borne  by  its  motion  without  toil  or  care, 
When,  looking  down  in  her  ethereal  joy. 
She  marked  earth's  moilers  at  their  hard  employ ; 

"  And  0  ! "  she  said,  "  that  by  some  act  of  grace 
'Twere  mine  to  succour  yon  fierce-toiling  race. 
To  give  the  hungry  meat,  the  thirsty  drink — ■ 
The  thought  of  good  is  very  sweet  to  think." 

The  day  advanced,  and  the  cloud  greater  grew. 
And  greater ;  likewise  her  desire  to  do 
Some  charity  to  men  had  more  and  more, 
As  the  long  sultry  summer  day  on  wore, 
Greatened  and  warmed  within  her  fleecy  breast, 
Like  a  dove  fledging  in  its  downy  nest. 

Til 6  heat  waxed  fiercer,  until  all  the  land 
Glared  in  the  sun  as  'twere  a  monstrous  brand ; 
And  the  shrunk  rivers,  few  and  far  between. 
Like  molten  metal  lightened  in  the  scene. 
Ill  could  Earth's  sons  endure  their  toilsome  state, 
Though  still  they  laboured,  for  their  need  was  great. 
And  many  a  long  beseeching  look  they  sped 
Towards  that  fair  cloud,  with  many  a  sigh  that  said, 
"  AVe  famish  for  thy  bounty  !     For  our  sake 
0  break  !  thou  in  a  showery  blessing,  break  ! " 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  211 

"  I  feel,  aiul  fain  "would  help  you,"  said  the  cloud. 
And  towards  the  earth  her  bounteous  being  bowud ; 
But  then  rememb'ring  a  tradition  she 
Had  in  her  youth  learned  from  her  native  sea, 
That  Avhen  a  cloud  adventures  from  the  skies 
Too  near  the  altar  of  the  hills,  it  dies  ! 
Awhile  she  wavered,  and  was  blown  about 
Hither  and  thither  by  the  winds  of  doubt ; 
But  in  the  midst  of  heaven  at  length  all  still 
She  stood ;  and  then  suddenly  with  a  keen  thrill 
Of  light,  she  said  within  heiself,  "  I  will ! 
Yea,  in  the  glad  strength  of  devotion,  I 
Will  help  you,  though  in  helping  you  I  die." 

Filled  with  this  thought's  divinity,  the  cloud 

Grew  world-like  vast  as  earthward  more  she  bowed. 

0  !  never  erewhile  had  she  dreamed  her  state 

So  great  might  be,  beneficently  great ! 

O'er  the  parched  fields  in  her  angelic  love 

She  sj^read  her  wide  wings  like  a  brooding  dove  : 

Till,  as  her  purpose  deepened,  drawing  near, 

Divinely  awful  did  her  front  appear, 

And  men  and  beasts  all  trembled  at  the  view. 

And  the  vroods  bowed,  though  well  all  creatures  knew 

That  near  in  her,  to  every  kind  the  same, 

A  great  predestined  benefactress  came. 

And  then  wide-flashed  throughout  her  full-grown  form 
The  glory  of  her  will/  the  pain  and  storm 
Of  life's  dire  dread  of  death,  whose  mortal  threat 
From  Christ  Himself  drew  agonising  sweat, 
Flashed  seething  out  of  rents  amid  her  heaps 
Of  lowering  gloom,  and  thence  with  arrowy  leaps 
Hissed  jagging  downwards,  till  a  sheety  glare 
Illumined  all  the  illimitable  air ; 


\2  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  thunder  followed,  a  tremendous  sound, 
Loud  doubling  and  reverberating  round  ; 
Strong  was  her  will,  but  stronger  yet  the  power 
Of  love  that  now  dissolved  her  in  a  shower 
Dropping  in  blessings  to  enrich  the  earth 
With  health  and  plenty  at  one  blooming  birth. 

Far  as  the  rain  extended  o'er  the  land, 

A  splendid  bow  the  freshened  landscape  spanned, 

Like  a  celestial  arc  hung  in  the  air 

By  angel  artists  to  illumine  there 

The  parting  triumph  of  that  spirit  fair. 

The  rainbow  vanished,  but  the  blessing  craved 

Rested  upon  the  land  the  cloud  had  saved. 


MARY  ARDEN. 

When  a  simple  English  maiden, 

Nested  warm  in  Wilmicote, 
Sang  forth  like  a  lark  uprising 

Heavenward  with  its  morning  note, 
Did  no  English  ear  that  listened, 

Even  then,  foretouched  by  fame. 
Tremble  to  the  prophet-music, 

Fountain-headed  in  thy  name, 
Mary  Arden  1 

And  to  thee  thyself,  0  tell  me  ! 

Shade  of  Shakespeare's  mother,  tell  me  ! 
Did  no  dazzling  vision  come, 

Banishing  all  thoughts  of  gloom, 
Of  the  bardic  grandeurs  waiting 

On  thy  matron  fate,  when  He 
Who  in  time  should  call  the  mother 

Should  all  time's  subjector  be, 
Mary  Arden  ? 


PHILIP  DALE  HAVILAND.  213 

When  a  motlier  we  behold  thee, 

With  thy  babe  upon  thy  breast, 
That  great  nascent  soul,  so  bird-like, 

Babbling  in  its  fragrant  nest : 
0  what  spirit  sweetly  human, 

0  what  instincts  mildly  wise, 
Sucked  he  from  those  mother-fountains, 

Drew  he  from  those  mother-eyes, 
Mary  Arden ! 

But  shall  we,  now  spirit-basking 

In  the  noonblaze  of  his  fame, 
Fail  to  read  a  sign  prophetic 

In  thy  lovely  maiden  name  ? 
No,  it  is  the  star  that  trembled 

O'er  a  royal  poet's  birth ; 
And  amongst  immortal  Maries 

Second  to  but  one  on  earth, 
Mary  Arden  ! 

Glory  to  thee  !  Mary  Arden  ! 
Shakespeare's  mother  !  England's  Marj' ! 


PHILIP  DALE  HAVILAND. 

[Desires  the  incognito  preserved.  Has  a  volume  of  poems  conjointly 
with  Cyril  Haviland  in  preparation,  and  has  been  a  frequent 
contributor  of  poems  to  Australian  periodicals.] 

AN  AUSTRALIAN  FOREST. 

I  GO, — but  to  return, — 
Your  dreamy  haunting  breeze 
Would  sing  me  back  again  ; 
Old  friends  I  might  forget. 


214  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Old  liopes  merge  in  the  new, 
All,  all,  but  you, — but  you. 

Your  great  dark  trees  would  rise 
And  beckon  to  my  soul ; 
I  could  not  wait  and  know 
How  cool  the  autumn  mist 
Was  creeping  on  the  air, 
And  I — 0  !  I  not  there. 

In  dreams  my  eyes  would  see 
The  great  long  golden  bars 
That  lie  upon  your  grass. 
When,  like  a  ball,  the  sun 
Rolls  down  the  shining  day, 
And  I, — but  I, — away. 

I  could  not  live  and  rest 
Far  from  your  wild  fir-trees. 
Your  branches  murmuring, 
Your  night-bird's  distant  note  ; 
To  hear  each  hidden  sound 
Were  happiness  profound. 

For  in  the  resinous  air 

That  rises  'mid  your  trees. 

My  soul  once  more  could  breathe  ; 

Give  me  your  soughing  wind 

With  perfumed  odours  blent. 

And  I, — I  am  content. 


EBENEZER  STOREY  HAY.  215 

EBENEZER  STOREY  HAY. 

[Eoni  at  Kilsyth,  Scotland.  Was  a  solicitor  at  Dunedin,  New 
Zealand,  and  one  of  the  most  esteemed  contributors  to  the  New 
Zealand  periodicals.  He  died  prematurely,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
seven.  Published  a  pamphlet  entitled  Some  Characteristics  of 
Wordsworth's  Poetry,  and  their  Lessons  for  tis,  an  essay,  and  some 
Poems  b>/  Fleta  (Dunedin,  New  Zealand  :  Jolly,  Cameron,  and 
Co.,  1S81).     A  volume  of  his  collected  poems  is  contemplated.] 

PROMETHEUS. 

How  long,  devouring  vultures,  Avill  ye  pierce 
With  sharp  and  sluttish  bills  my  flesh,  and  tear 
With  agonising  wrench  your  bloody  fare 

From  my  exhaustless  sides  1     Relentless,  fierce, 
Meet  ministers  of  Jupiter  ye  are  ! 
Whose  gifts  to  men  are  massacre  and  war, 

And  trampling  pride,  and  all  that  is  averse 
To  that  sweet  lore  I  filched  them  from  afar. 

But  I,  who  have  foreknowledge  of  all  things. 
Know  the  predestined  hour  will  come  when  He 

And  all  the  race  of  tyrants  and  of  kings 

Must  fall,  and  man  in  brotherhood  be  free — 

Then  all  these  sleepless  years  and  your  foul  stings 
Shall  have  for  guerdon  Love  and  Liberty. 


PROMETHEUS  AND  ASIA. 
L 

When  a  rose  in  beauty  blows, 

When  a  bud  from  earth  outpeeps, 

When  a  soul  another  knows 
In  love's  glassy,  dreamy  deeps, 

Is  not  then  Prometheus  wed  1 
Is  not  then  sweet  Asia  led 


2i6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

To  the  spotless  bowers  of  love  ? 
And  Love  is  lord  all  thinfrs  above. 


When  a  toiler  finds  some  law 

Through  all  change  unchangeable, 
And  in  joy  and  loving  awe 

Sees  less  dim  the  Eternal  Will, 
Is  not  then  Prometheus  led 

Joyous  to  the  nuptial  bed? 
Is  not  then  his  Asia's  rule 

Gracious,  loving,  beautiful  1 

III. 

Wlien  a  poet's  frenzied  brain 

Catches  at  some  hidden  truth, 
When  is  Avashed  a  crimson  stain 

With  forgiving  tears  of  rutli. 
Is  not  then  Prometheus'  bride 

Standing  glowing  by  his  side  ? 
Is  not  then  more  sweet  to  him 

Than  the  song  of  Seraphim 
Her  sweet  breath  and  placid  eyes  ] 

For  Earth  is  one  with  Paradise. 


ISABEL. 

"  Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 
Married  to  immortal  verse." — Milton. 

I. 

She  will  not  wake  whate'er  I  call, 
She  will  not  stir  as  there  she  lies, 

The  colour  from  her  lips  has  fled, 
And  gone  the  glory  from  her  eyes — 


EBENEZER  STOREY  HAY.  217 

0,  what  is  life  if  she  be  dead  ? — 
A  world  with  only  sunless  skies. 

II. 

I  knew  her  young,  and  fair,  and  strong, 
And  loved  her  then,  ah  !  who  so  well  1 

But  wisdom  bade  me  (monstrous  lie  !) 
Resign  my  darling  Isabel — 

I  strove  with  love,  repressed  the  sigh, 
And  bade  my  Isabel  farewell, 

III. 

I  rose  in  place,  in  power,  in  wealth, 
I  gained  esteem  and  great  applause, 

Lly  name  became  a  household  word, 
I  ruled  the  State,  I  made  the  laws, 

My  voice  throughout  the  land  was  heard, 
Triumphant  in  the  people's  cause. 

IV. 

"  Now  I  will  let  me  love,"  I  said, 
"  And  I  am  worthier  far  than  then ; 

My  wisdom  has  been  dearly  bought 
In  conflict  with  the  wisest  men  ; 

Come  then,  sweet  love — so  long  unsought — 
And  fold  me  in  your  wings  again." 


I  thought  me  wise,  but  soon  was  stunned, 

To  find  no  love  in  all  I  met. 
But  worldly  wisdom  and  a  smile. 

That  made  me  mad  with  wild  regret — 
I  thought  of  Isabel  the  while. 

And  found  my  burning  cheeks  were  wut. 


2i8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

VI. 

She  will  not  wake  wliate'er  I  call, 
She  Avill  not  stir  as  there  she  lies ; 

The  colour  from  her  lips  has  fled, 

And  gone  the  light  from  her  sweet  eyes ; 

JMy  darling  Isabel  is  dead, 

And  love,  too  late,  has  made  me  wise. 


IN  A  GARDEN. 

I  SAW  my  fair  one  plucking  fruit, 
The  velvet  peach  and  dusky  plum ; 
And,  as  she  stooped  to  gather  some 
That  hid  themselves  in  scarlet  plots 
And  blue  beds  of  forget-me-nots, 
I  stood  as  though  I'd  taken  root, 
And  durst  not  lift  intruding  foot — 
So,  leaning  on  a  neiglibouring  gum 
(I  knew  she  had  not  seen  me  come), 
I  watched  her  stand,  and  upward  reach 
And  shame  the  pink  of  tinted  peach 
In  stretching  where  some  ripe  one  lies 
Behind  its  screen  of  leafy  green, 
"With  just  a  speck  of  crimson  seen — 
The  burning  kiss  of  summer  skies — 

Then  turn,  some  laurel-leaves  to  cull 
Wherewith  to  trim  her  basketful ; 
And  as  she  sat  with  careless  grace, 
And  set  each  beauty  in  its  place, 
I  drank  the  scene  with  open  eyes, 
And  like  half-wakened  memories, 
Came  tender  thoughts  in  quiet  mood 
That  made  me  wish  for  solitude. 


EBENEZER  STOREY  HAY.  219 

I  coi;ld.  not  clioose  to  linger  there 
Where  all  was  grace  and  debonnair, 
Where  ever}'  movement  seemed  to  bo 
Some  preconcerted  melody, 
Where  but  to  speak  was  to  destroy 
The  blissful  calm,  the  tender  joy.        , 

So,  turning  from  the  magic  spell, 
And  from  the  form  I  loved  so  well, 
I  mused  how  pleasure  often  springs 
From  far-off,  half-remembered  things, 
And  how  the  vision  I  had  met 
Might  yield  a  richer  harvest  yet ; 
Then  stole  away — and  in  my  mind 
I  carry  still  that  garden  scene. 
The  motions  of  my  graceful  queen, 
And  all  the  beauty  left  behind, 
The  charm  of  flowers,  the  wealth  of  fruit. 
The  dusky  plum,  the  velvet  peach, 
And  the  bright  lesson  that  they  teach. 
How  grace  and  beauty  more  than  preach, 
And  to  the  soul  are  never  mute. 


TWO  SONNETS. 


1S\y  pipe  is  small,  but  I  will  labour  hard 
That  naught  but  melody  shall  issue  thence ; 
And  though  the  song,  tumultuous  and  intense, 
Inspired  of  passion  is  to  me  debarred, 
Yet  in  some  golden  moments  happy-starred 
Apollo  holds  me  in  a  sweet  suspense. 
Breathless  and  rapt — and  straining  every  sense, 
I  hear  his  lyre,  and  great  is  my  reward. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  0  !  what  joy  when  song  lias  wed  to  it 
The  clanging  choral  music  of  the  sea, 
Or  whirr  of  birds  that  in  green  shadows  flit 
With  brisk  and  timid  flight  from  tree  to  tree  !  — 
When  sounds  like  these  find  voice  in  what  is  writ, 
0  happy  poet !  how  I  envy  thee  ! 

II. 

But  song  should  be  uidaboured  as  a  flower 
That  grows  in  beauty  in  some  deep  retreat, 
Spreading  a  dewy  freshness  round  our  feet 
Or  kindling  into  flame  some  leafy  bower. 
True  song  is  ever  prodigal  of  power 
Delighting  in  its  strength,  its  form  complete — 
And  loves  the  lore  of  beauty  to  repeat 
With  changing  loveliness  from  hour  to  hour. 

It  should  be  like  the  sea,  buoyant  and  deep, 
And  like  a  star  that  shines  serene  and  clear, 
A  beck'ning  voice  from  an  untrodden  steep, 
A  murmur  of  far  music  in  the  ear, 
A  dream  that  has  no  fellowship  with  sleep, 
But  to  the  Dawn  looks  for  a  golden  sphere. 


A  SONG. 


Be  still,  my  heart,  be  still, 
I  only  heard  his  name. 

And  through  my  cheeks  I  felt 
The  colour  rush  like  flame  ; 

Although  he  loves  me  not, 
I  love  him  still  the  same — 


EBBNBZER  STOREY  HAY. 

llim  I  should  scorn  and  hate — 

He  treated  me  so  ill. 
0  !  surely  this  is  Fate 

To  love  against  my  will ! 
Because  I  heard  his  name 

My  heart  is  beating  still. 

Be  still,  my  heart,  be  still ; 

0  !  could  he  only  know 
The  height  of  woman's  love, 

The  depth  of  woman's  woe, 
He  surely  could  not  dare 
To  love — and  leave  me  so. 

Be  still,  my  heart,  be  still, 

1  must  forget  the  past. 
It  was  an  idle  dream — 

A  dream  too  sweet  to  last ; 
And  I  through  life  must  feel 
Love's  blighting,  lightning  blast. 


DESPAIR. 

Once,  dread  visitor,  you  came. 
Once,  or  twice  at  most, 

But  you  stayed  not,  so  your  name 
Soon  to  me  was  lost — 

Kow  you  linger  like  a  guest, 

And  I  cannot,  cannot  rest. 

Wlien  the  tender  hues  of  spring 
Came  with  birds  that  pair, 

With  the  pairing  birds  I'd  sing 
Life  is  sweet  and  love  is  fair — 


223  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Now  I  languish  and  I  sigh, 
And  I  only  wish  to  die. 

I  am  young  in  years,  but  you 

Aged  me  long  ago ; 
What  to  me  is  spring-time's  hue, 

Birds  that  sing,  or  buds  that  blow 
Every  prospect  now  is  drear, 
For  I  look — and  you  are  here. 

Once,  drear  visitor,  you  came 
To  my  troubled  heart, 

But  delight,  with  sword  of  flame, 
Bade  you  soon  depart — 

Now  you  come  an  armed  host : 

Delight  is  dead,  and  I  am  lost. 


THOMAS  HENEY. 

[Of  Wilcannia,  River  Darling,  New  South  Wales  ;  has  published 
a  volume  entitled  Fortunate  Days  (Sydney :  Turner  &  Hen- 
derson, 1886).] 

THE  FLOWER  EVERLASTING. 

Shy  flower  that  aye  delights  to  grace 

A  desert  place, 
And  glorify  the  thankless  stones 
With  golden  crowns  and  cones, 

While  in  the  meads  thy  sisters  fair 

The  bounty  share 
Of  wind  and  dew  and  sun,  content 
With  whate'er  good  be  sent. 


THOMAS  HYENE.  223 

Some  corner  narrow  and  obscure 

Dost  choose,  secure 
From  sudden  grasp  of  hands  unkind 
That  oft  thy  sisters  find ; 

Wouldst  rather  safe  be  than  admired 

And  so  retired, 
Those  charms  to  lovers  only  show 
That  rocks  hide  from  a  foe. 

Mature  denies  the  haunting  scent 

To  others  lent, 
Instead  she  gives  thee  longer  stay 
Than  beauties  of  a  day. 

They  ope  and  show  their  charms  awhile. 

Their  life  a  smile — 
Then  close  and  gently  die ;  but  thou 
Death  not  so  swift  can  bow. 


SALUT  A  L' HOMME— WALT  WHITMAN. 

Passionate    voice     of    Democracy,    exultant,    militant, 

triumphant. 
Poet  of  Democracy  celebrating  the  destiny  of  unborn  men 

in  thy  song. 
Sweet  heart  singing  stern  songs  of  sacrifice  in  times  of 

calm-faced  selfishness. 
Strong  heart  singing  sweet  songs  of  liope,  aird  ultimate 

triumph  in  dark  days, 
Closing  with  tender  hands  the  eyes  of  dead  soldiers,  dead 

to  fulfil  your  idea, 
(So  only  the  work  could  be  wrought) — 


224  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Yourself  is  the  song  we  shall  sing  of  you,  Walt  Whitman 

speaking  for  men, 
Now  the  echo  of  your  great  voice  is  ringing  from  utter- 
most lands. 
What  music  for  you,  old  man,  going  with  serene  eyes  to  death, 
Glancing  back  at  the  fate-brooding  world,  singing,  "  Go 

bravely,  dear  world  ;  so  long  "  ; — 
The  music  of  eyes  luminous  with  new  hope,  and  lives 

advancing  to  new  destinies, 
Lips  that  have  found  voice  for  brave  thoughts,  no  longer 

chorus  to  lie-leaders — 
What  is  the  praise  of  a  man  who  opens  a  new  future 

before  humanity, 
Therein  himself  leading  the  slaves  of  systems  to  accomplish 

themselves  1 
Christ's  cross,   Socrates'   cup,   rejection   of   Buddha  and 

Confucius, 
Then  acceptance,  and  after  a  thousand  years  a  rotting 

system  again. 
Through  what  long  paths  must  the  world  rise  to  a  better 

gospel  than  yours  ! 
After  the  deep-chanted  curses  of  priests,  hail  a  calm  strong 

assent, 
That  rolls  the  fog  of  the  past  as  a  wind  clears  the  sea-fog 

from  Californian  valleys. 
So  long  have  we  listened  to  curses,  of  God,  of  man,  of  all 

that  is  or  that  may  be ; 
Now  the  curses  die  like  the  dying  echoes   of  impotent 

cannon. 
Hail  the  great  voice  that  rose  through  that  din,  telling  a 

new  gospel — 
The  gospel  of  acquiescence  with  nature  and  co-operation 

and  obedience. 
And  the  divine  doctrine  of  solidarity — the  comradeship 

eternal  of  men, 


THOMAS  HENEY.  225 

A  noble  sympathy  not  born  of  ignorance  and  pity,  but  of 

understanding  and  love, 
And  a  perpetual  watchful  hatred  of  the  exploitation  of 

men. 


THE  WILD  DUCK. 

Tell  me  the  charm  of  thy  haunts,  0  bird, 

Far  in  the  unknown  "West, 
Of  the  desert  pools  whose  waves  are  stirred 

By  press  of  plumy  breast. 
And  the  diver's  plunge  and  flutter  of  wings — 
"When  the  ripples  speed  their  increasing  rings. 

Tell  of  the  lakes  that  sleep  in  the  reeds, 

Crystal  and  gold  and  green  ; 
"Whenever  the  wind  his  legion  leads 

Through  banks  that  sway  and  lean, 
They  renew  the  fable  of  olden  Pan 
"Who  taught  his  music  through  reeds  to  man. 

How  oft  sought'st  thou  rest  in  darkling  glade, 

In  some  well-hidden  pool, 
"Where  centurial  trees  o'erspread  their  shade 

And  waters  glimmered  cool. 
And  the  gentle  murmur  of  leaf  and  wave 
"Were  the  only  voices  that  ISTature  gave. 

Tell  of  the  marsh  in  the  swamp-oak's  gloom 
Whence  sound  the  curlew's  cries. 

Echoed  like  prayers  of  souls  in  doom 
That  aye  unpitied  rise  ; 

Of  the  river's  reach  and  the  shallow  flow 

Of  creeks  whose  waters  sparkling  go. 

P 


226  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Say  how  in  a  night  of  fear  thy  glance 

Through  the  dark  woodland  aisles 
Saw  the  corroboree's  measured  dance 

And  the  sway  of  painted  files 
In  the  camp-fire's  light,  while  the  echoes  long 
Bore  far  the  chant  of  the  savage  throng — 

How  thine  eyes,  too,  saw  on  some  inland  road 

The  labouring  oxen  draw 
The  dray  that  groaned  'neath  its  pilM  load 

As  it  felt  the  burden  sore, 
While  the  teamster  trolled  in  his  rough  strong  voice 
Some  bushman's  lay,  to  a  bushman  choice — 

Or  saw,  while  thy  wings  upbore,  below 

The  brown  plains  far  expand, 
Desolate  but  for  the  flocks  that  slow 

Stray  and  nibble,  or  stand. 
And  the  shepherd  who  sees  with  a  careless  gaze 
The  well-known  scape  half-hidden  by  haze. 


A  SONG  OF  FLOWERS. 

0  WALL-FLOWERS  with  the  jonquils  white, 
When  spring's  first  winds  blow  widening  rifts 
In  winter  skies  and  swift  soft  drifts 

Of  rain  athwart  the  tender  light, 
Then  ope  your  gentle  eyes  to  see 
Who  wakes  you  so  caressingly. 

Sweet  flowers  of  England  and  of  France, 
Give  me  your  perfume  till  I  dream 

1  see  the  jonquils'  gracious  gleam 
On  bosoms  throbbing  in  the  dance, 
The  village  dance  when  twilight  falls, 
And  meet  the  young-souled  Proven9aIs, 


THOMAS  HENEY.  227 

Nor  you,  wall  flowers,  forget  mine  eyes  ; 
Ye  speak  of  placid  English  garths, 
Where  far  beside  the  winding  paths 
A  wilderness  of  blooms  there  lies, 
Like  music  visible  that  are 
Or  leafy  heavens,  each  flower  a  star. 

"Wall-flowers,  your  opening  buds  be  mine, 
And  yours,  0  golden-eyed  jonqiuls. 
Till  from  these  far  Australian  hills 
I  bring  a  bloom  with  them  to  shine. 
What  from  this  flowery  land  shall  I 
Set  to  your  sweet-breathed  blossoms  nigh  1 

The  waratah  I  may  not  choose — 
That  would  outshine  your  modest  charms — 
Nor  swamp-mahogany's  floss-flowered  arms, 
Nor  golden  wattle,  the  shade  that  woos. 
Nor  crimson  splendours  and  bells  of  heath, 
Nor  sarsaparilla's  purple  wreath. 

No,  but  a  stem  of  dainty  bells 
With  silver  rims,  in  a  rose-red  sheaf. 
Dropped  from  a  wealth  of  shining  leaf, 
I  bring  from  sun-kissed  slopes  and  dells. 
May  it  gain  a  breath  of  scent  from  you ; 
And  do  ye  borrow  a  nobler  hue. 


WOOD-NOTES. 

What  magic  hath  the  air  this  day  of  spring 

That  it  can  bring 
So  many  memories  of  wood-delight — 
The  tender  shadow  mixed  with  tender  light, 

The  birds'  full  song. 
The  gracious  silence,  halting  hours  and  long  ? 


228  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

For  in  this  dream  I  leave  the  noisy  streets 

For  cool  retreats 
Of  forest  aisles  and  bowers  of  underwood  ; 
"While  constant  memory  obeys  my  mood — 

Again  I  see 
The  far  abodes  of  charm  and  mystery — 

Those  woods  where  envious  autumn  hath  no  sway, 

Nor  til  ere  she  may, 
As  in  the  Northern  climes,  her  victims  freak 
With  colours  that  approaching  fall  do  speak. 

Those  glowing  hues, 
The  wonder  of  a  week,  I  would  not  choose. 

Nor  where,  like  lords  despoiled,  stretch  miles  on  miles 

The  naked  piles. 
Which,  as  unpitying  victors,  storms  berate, 
And  from  those  woods,  their  lov^d  haunts  so  late. 

To  mourn  the  wrong, 
Silent  from  grief,  depart  the  quiring  throng. 

Here  in  unending  songs  the  woods  rejoice, 

And  hear  a  voice 
Each  hour  resume  an  intermitted  lay, 
Pouring  bloom-perfect  notes,  so  full  and  gay, 

Now  fast,  now  slow. 
Air  and  the  echoes  seem  to  overflow. 

When  as  the  dawn  suffuses  eastern  skies, 

While  night  still  lies 
Amid  the  dewy  shadow  unawake, 
The  magpie  swells  from  knoll  or  silent  brake 

His  loud  sweet  tune. 
How  rare  those  notes,  that  always  end  too  soon  ! 


THOMAS  HENEY.  229 

As  if  till  that  song  ceased  each  voice  were  still, 

Now  air  doth  thrill 
With  other  fainter  and  less  daring  notes ; 
Yet  is  this  revelry  of.dainty  throats 

As  sweet,  though  soft, 
As  theirs  to  whom  the  echoing  woods  ring  oft. 

Full  many  a  voice,  0  wood,  hast  thou  unnamed. 

Though  none  hath  famed. 
Save  it  those  twitterings  and  tremolos  clear, 
Yet  are  to  thee  its  consonances  dear ; 

Its  perfect  art 
In  thy  long  symphony  fills  well  a  part. 

On  him  who,  mem'ry-haunted,  walks  thy  halls 

The  music  falls, 
"Wanting  such  charms  as  fills  the  olden  rimes  : 
Sweeter,  0  wood,  than  that  of  other  climes, 

Thine  own  song  flows, 
As  wattle  blooms  for  thee,  and  not  the  rose. 

Yet  wert  thou  through  all  seasons  still  the  same. 

Spring  but  the  name. 
How  few  would  love  that  fair  monotony  ! 
So  do  the  passing  months  bring  change  to  thee, 

Kor  change  so  great, 
Since  no  month  ever  sees  thee  desolate. 

Twice  in  thy  pleasant  year  the  wattles  crown 

"With  golden  down 
Their  sombre  rames,  and  with  the  gum's  stiff  leaves 
A  dusk- white  fragrant  bloom  May  interweaves, 

And  spring  bestows 
ilany  a  flower  less  bright  and  sweet  than  those. 


230  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Nor  but  one  sense  to  please  dost  thou  incline — 

Breaths  anodj'ne, 
And  heavy  with  perfume  of  flower  and  wood — 
]\Iysterious  scents  whose  founts  do  search  elude — 

The  warm  air  holds, 
And  bears  far  out  upon  the  neighbouring  wolds. 

How  great  an  answer  is  your  gracious  mood, 

0  stately  wood, 
To  those  who  oft  deny  tlie  charms  thou  hast, 
And  think  thee  dumb  because  their  ears  are  fast ; 

And,  full  of  care. 
Find  not  those  tranquil  hours  which  they  sought  there. 


PHILIP  J.  HOLDSWOETH. 

[Of  Sydney,  New  South  Wales.  Is  cashier  of  the  Colonial  Treasury, 
Sydney,  and  editor  of  the  Illustrated  Sydney  Neus.  Kendall 
pronounced  him  "an  authentic  singer."  In  iS8o  he  published 
Station-Hunting  on  the  Warrego,  and  other  Poems  (Sydney  : 
William  Maddock,  381  George  Street).] 

AUSTRALIA. 

0  Muse  divine  !  within  whose  strange  soft  lyre 
Melodious  lays  of  subtle  strength  and  splendour 
Sleep,  till  the  bard's  quick  touch  and  tongue  of  fire 
Lure  them  to  life : — even  thou,  sweet  Muse,  engender 
Within  my  brain  songs  passionate  and  tender — 
Songs  sung  or  harped  'mid  thy  most  secret  spheres, 
But  snatched  by  amorous  couriers  to  mine  ears. 
And  hoarded  in  mysoul's  most  hallowed  cells. 
Where  the  mute  seraph,  Contemplation,  dwells 

Till  the  renascent  hour. 

When,  summoned  by  thy  power. 
Dainty  and  swift  once  more  their  melody  out-wells. 


PHILIP  J.  HOLDSWORTb.  231 

I. 

Australia  !  he  that  anthcras  thee  aright 

Must  psahn  his  loud  delight 
With  lips  of  gold,  and  supple  tongue  as  pure, 
And  sounding  harp  than  mine  less  immature  ! 
Yet,  should  my  happy  verse,  though  faint,  refuse 

To  trumpet  forth  thy  dues, 
Methinks  dumb  trees  (each  leaf  a  tongue  of  flame !) 
Would  clarion  out  thy  grandeur  and  my  shame  : 
Thy  timorous  vales  responsively  would  hj^mn 

Like  sweet-lipped  Cherubim — 
Each  peak  would  lift  its  sky-saluting  crest 

Still  loftier  from  Earth's  breast, 
And  blend,  with  melting  murmurs,  into  strong 

Ambrosial  breaths  of  song  : 
Yea,  vehemently  plead  to  listening  Earth 
The  perfect  marvel  of  thy  matchless  worth. 

II. 

Thrice  hail  the  bright  day  when  the  refluent  sea 

Witnessed  the  birth  of  thee  ! 
WTien  from  dark,  solemn  depths  of  foam-fringed  surge, 
Mysterious  and  divine,  thou  didst  emerge ; 
Framed,  by  God's  grace,  that  after-years  might  see 
A  sacred  shrine  thrice  dear  to  Liberty ! 
On  that  glad  day  (0  best-born  day  of  Time  !) 
(xod  gathered  rare  delights  from  each  fair  clime. 
And  scattering  them  with  bountiful  High  Haml, 
^Most  lavishly  they  reigned  on  thee,  O  land  ! 
Such  was  the  ripe  wealth  of  the  prodigal  dower 

That  decked  thy  natal  hour  ! 

III. 

Yet,  like  some  such  scroll. 
Which  no  man  dare  unroll, 


232  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Enchantment  veiled  thy  beauties,  while  sublime 
And  shadowy  epochs  scaled  the  steeps  of  time, 
Till  the  brave  mariner,  with  bounding  ships, 

Clove  through  green  seas'  foam-lips, 
To  where  thy  tranquil  splendours  slept,  impearled, 
And,  from  obscure  recesses,  called  a  Second  World. 


IV. 

Thine  was  the  trumpet-tongue,  illustrious  Cook, 

That  roused  mankind,  and  shook 
Blind,  brooding  Ignorance  from  Austral  waves, 
And  drove  her,  darkling,  to  far  dungeon-caves  ! 

Thine  was  the  hand  that  found, 

And  valiantly  unbound, 
The  long-closed  volume  of  our  land's  delight, 
And  barred  the  priceless  wealth  thereof  in  all  men's  sight. 


v. 

For  this,  0  chief  of  Ocean's  pioneers. 

Thy  dauntless  deeds  make  music  in  our  ears 

(Outsinging  all  thy  peers  !) 
For  this,  just  Memory,  heedful  of  great  acts 

Imperially  enacts 
That,  in  her  clearest  chronicle,  loud  Fame 

Shall  glorify  thy  name 
(A  shining  tribute  which  few  kings  can  claim  !) 


VI. 

Dear  land,  above  whose  hills,  and  vales,  and  streams 
Joy  swoons,  delirious  rapt  with  honeyed  dreams  ! — 

Thou  hast  no  storied  plains, 
Thick-strewn  with  shattered  palaces  and  fanes — 


PHILIP  J.  HOLDSWORTH.  233 

Xo  old-\yorld  wrecks,  which  j^rate  to  distant  times 
Of  perished  pomps,  and  records  red  with  crimes  ; 

And  thy  clear-springing  waters, 
Unbeaconed  with  the  blood  of  human  slaughters, 

Haste,  garrulous  with  glee, 
To  mix  full  treasures  in  one  placid  sea ! 

^OT  hasfc  thou  viewed  the  baleful  day 

When  phalanxes  in  mailed  array, 

Spurred  by  the  hate  that  vengeance  hoards. 
Shook  the  sharp  clamours  from  their  clashing  swords, 

And  bade  the  foe,  with  blow  and  thrust, 

Bite  the  blind  suflfocating  dust, 
Till  Virtue  trembled  from  her  god-like  seat, 
And,  wailing,  fled  with  faint,  reluctant  feet. 

VII. 

For  round  thy  broad  delectable  expanse 
Soft  peace  broods  sweetly  in  celestial  trance ; 

"While,  quiet  and  benign, 
Unnumbered  synods  of  winged  joys  combined 
To  guard  with  gracious  care  thy  prospering  state 
From  rough,  rude  brawls  and  travelling  tongues  of  hate  ! 

VIII. 

0  Austral  hills  and  dim  delightful  dells  ! 

0  boundless  plains,  made  glad  with  fruitful  things  ! 

O  storm-worn  cliffs,  whose  stern,  stark  front  repels 

The  surge  that  spins  aloft  on  soft  white  Avings  ! 

O  sleepless  clamours  of  sea-thunderings  ! 

Straight  through  your  realms  let  one  triumphal  chant 

Eing, — swift  and  jubilant — 
Even  from  the  sea,  to  where  lone,  swirling  plains 
(Remote  from  grovelling  cits  and  stolid  swains  !) 
Stretch  for  fantastic  leagues  their  drear  domains — 


234  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Lift  your  high  anthems — till  dull  man  confess 
(Right  volubly)  my  land's  rare  loveliness  ; 
And  trump  in  tones  that  none  dare  controvert 
A  world's  loud  homage  to  her  rich  desert ! 


AT  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  POPRAN. 

Where  hurrying  Popran  slides  and  leaps 
Past  white,  smooth  sands  and  stubborn  steep, 
Or  glides  through  green  arcades — whose  trees 
(Branch-tangled)  weave  strange  bowers  to  please 
This  traveller  toward  abysmal  seas — 
I  loiter ! — 

From  the  grove's  heart  comes 
(Grave-voiced  like  oceanic  hums), — 
God's  mystic  forest-rhyme,  that  dumbs 
And  drowns  the  blare  o'  the  world. 

Above, 
The  wonga,  myrtle-perched,  coos  love, 
And  petulant  red-bills,  fleet- winged,  free, 
Prattle  their  magic  minstrelsy  ! 

Hark  !  haply  from  yon  black-butts'  height. 
Small  yellow-bosomed  bell-birds  smite 
Crisp  air  with  clarions  of  delight ! — 
0  bell-bird,  happy  bird  !  that  shrills 
Strong  trumpet-tones  where  tongueless  rills 
And  lustrous  pools,  fern-nooked,  perdu, 
Lurk — hid  from  all — save  God  and  you  ! — 
O  joyful  sprite  !  whose  strains  unbar 
Song-treasures,  filched,  perchance,  from  far 
Star-realms  where  spiritual  dearth 
And  anguish  vex  not  as  on  earth  ! — 
Strong  transport  whirls  me,  as  your  grand 


PHILIP  J.  HOLDSWORTH.  235 

Hymns  climb  yon  mountainous  hills  that  stand 
Like  monstrous  outlooks  to  the  land ! 
Ah  !  if  to  me  your  jubilant  chant 
Seem  Mirth's  mellifluous  ministrant, — 
What  whirlwind-joys  must  needs  seize  him 
"Who,  lost  'mid  labyrinths  dire  and  grim, 
With  hazards  near, — with  helps  remote, — 
And  Hell's  thirst  dominant  in  his  throat, — 
Hears — hails, — your  lyric  pilot-note  ! 
May  God,  when  fowlers  range  your  land, 
Baffle  each  rough  churl's  murderous  hand ! 

Thus  hedged,  where  clustering  vine-shrubs  climb 
Past  storying  boughs  to  spheres  sublime, — 
Quick  drift-winds  (blown  through  odorous  plots) 
Steal  sweets  from  blossoming  clumps  and  grots, 
Till,  stored  with  pillaged  perfumes,  dipt 
From  wattle,  beech,  and  eucalypt, — 
Their  strange,  fresh  fragrance  balms  my  sense 
As  though  Heaven's  bounteous  Providence 
Showered  driblets  of  Sabean  spice 
To  dower  this  tranquil  Paradise. 

Yes,  canopied  even  here,  'mid  throngs 
Of  huddling  scents  and  passionate  songs, — 
And  lulled  by  motherly  Peace,  whose  furled 
Plumes  shroud  me  from  the  turbulent  world, 
My  happy  soul,  grown  rhythmic,  sings 
These  tributary  anthemings  : — 

Hijmn  to  Peace. 

O  gracious  Peace  !  whose  prodigal  gifts  make  light 
Dead  strifes  and  perished  toils, — dear  Nymph  bedight 
With  maiden  comeliness, — and  girt  with  grace 
In  queen-like  mien  and  face, — 


236  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Beneath  thy  sceptred  sway  Heaven  rightly  sets 

Green  shadowy  groves  and  rippling  rivulets  ; 

And  pure  cold  breadths,  where  broadening  lakes  expand, 

Yield  fealty  to  thine  hand, — 
Here,  where  cool  springs  and  bubbling  rills  rejoice 
Like  lullabies  (smooth-lisped),  thy  slumbrous  voice 
Creeps  softly  through  the  tremulous  air,  replete 
With  subtle  tones  and  semitones  more  sweet 
Than  woodland  warblings  piped  by  small,  bright  birds, 

Or  winsome  low  of  herds — 
More  witching  than  the  nectarous  speech  that  slips 

From  love-enamoured  lips — 
More  pure  than  seas  whose  swift  stupendous  shocks 

Lash  congregated  rocks, — 
More  calm  than  moonless  nights,  when  scarce  one  breath 

Stirs  from  its  sleep  of  death, — 
As  tuneable  as  streams,  and  storms,  and  seas. 
Ay,  tunefuller  thrice,  Supernal  Peace,  than  these. 

Lo !  years  draw  nigh,  when,  by  thy  might  divine, 
Eude  wars  shall  cease,  and  ravenous  fiends  malign, 
With  frenzied  rage  and  tempest-clamour  start, 

From  Earth's  tormented  heart ! — 
Yes,  years  approach  when  man  shall  feel  once  more 
Heaven's  own  miraculous  impress,  which  of  yore 
Transformed  him  from  a  lifeless  carven-clod 

To  Man, — a  visible  God  ! — 
Then  Eight,  not  Might,  shall  rule  through  Earth's  fair  zones, 
Possess  proud  realms^  and  buttress  mighty  thrones — 
And  cheer  glad  myriads  'mid  the  bland  careers 

Of  long-predicted  years, — 

Then  Man — new-born — shall  start  from  tomb-like  sleep 
August,  sublime,  nor  crouch  like  beasts  that  creep, — 


PHILIP  J.  HOLDSWORTH.  237 

Sliall  spring  erect,  and  gather  grace  and  strength, 
While  swift  Time  (mellowing  into  bliss  at  length) 
Shall  crown  his  being  with  thy  boon,  0  Peace  ! 
Till  Death  bid  Life  surcease  ! — 


I  pause  !     Day  droops  : — and  with  the  Day 
My  song's  strong  effluence  wastes  away  ! 
Light  dwindles  where  far  hill-peaks  rise, 
Eartli's  last  gold  torch  of  sunset  dies, — 
While  'mid  deep  glens,  dun  Eve's  obscure 
Hand  paints  Night's  mimic  portraiture. 
Even  yet  the  Alchemist  Sun  beguiles 
High  West  with  glorious  cloudlet  isles 
Whose  opalescent  splendours  gleam 
Like  Iris-hues  in  yon  still  stream, 

Lo  !  moist  glooms  fold  me  : — as  I  stir. 
Crushed  rosewood-leaves  ooze  fumes  of  myrrh- 
Exuberant  fumes,  that  scent  and  cling 
Round  hands  which  wreak  their  ruining, — 
(So  Martyrs,  panged  with  death-pains,  pray, 
God's  benison  on  them  that  slay  !) 

Now  halts  my  Hymn  : — the  stately  trees, 
(The  quivering,  multitudinous  trees  !) 
Stirred  to  the  roots  i'  the  Dusk's  chill  breeze 
Rustle  grand  twilight-liturgies, — 
Now  dies  my  Hymn ; — see,  treading  groves 
Wherein  no  venomous  fanged  thing  roves — • 
Housewards,  and  disenchained,  I  plod 
'Neath  stars  that  mystically  nod 
And  tremble  at  Thy  glance,  0  God. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


'^THE  ASTRONOMER. 


He  stands  aloof  from  grovelling  souls  that  strain 
With  keen  desires,  and  toilings  manifold, 
To  lard  their  leanness  with  the  graceless  gold 
That  Greed  and  Avarice  wring  from  human  pain ! — 
The  sensuous  aims  of  earth's  voluptuous  train, 
"Whose  days  are  days  of  mirth,  whose  nights  behold 
The  poisonous  stores  of  sin  and  sloth  outrolled — 
Shake  not  with  Passion's  pangs  his  kinglier  brain !  — 
For,  at  his  ardent  glance,  Night's  orbed  domain 
Unbars  her  marvellous  wreath  of  stars  untold 
And  hymns  the  splendours  of  their  mystic  mould 
With  lyric  lapse  of  song  and  sweet  refrain. 
Heedful,  he  hears, — while,  with  subdued  delight. 
He  tracks  God's  soundless  steps  through  labyrinthine 
Night. 


''HAST  THOU  FORGOTTEN  MEV 

Hast  thou  forgotten  me  ?     The  days  are  dark, 
Light  ebbs  from  Heaven,  and  songless  soars  the  lark ; 
Vexed  like  my  heart,  loud  moans  the  unquiet  sea — 
Hast  thou  forgotten  nie  1 

Hast  thou  forgotten  me  ?     O  dead  delight 
"Whose  dreams  and  memories  torture  me  at  night — 
0  love — my  life  !  0  sweet,  so  fair  to  see  ! 
Hast  thou  forgotten  me  % 

Hast  thou  forgotten  ?     Lo,  if  one  should  say — 
Noontide  were  night,  or  night  were  flaming  day — 
Grief  blinds  mine  eyes,  I  know  not  which  it  be ! 
Hast  thou  forgotten  nie  ? 


PHILIP  J.  HOLDSWORTH.  239 

Hast  thou  forgotten  1     Ah  !  if  Death  should  come, 
Close  my  sad  eyes,  and  charm  my  song-bird  dumb, — 
Tired  of  strange  woes — my  fate  were  hailed  with  glee — 
Hast  thou  forgotten  me  ? 

Hast  thou  forgotten  me  1     What  joy  have  I  % 
A  dim  blown  bird  beneath  an  alien  sky, — 
O  that  on  mighty  pinions  I  could  flee — 
Hast  thou  forgotten  me  ? 

Hast  thou  forgotten  1     Yea,  Love's  horoscope 
Is  blurred  with  tears  and  suffering  beyond  hope — 
Ah !  like  dead  leaves  forsaken  of  the  tree, 
Thou  hast  forsrotten  me  ! 


''LOVE'S  LAMENTATION." 

0  STEADFAST  Love ! — more  strong  than  sea-girt  rocks, 

Round  which  the  rough  surge  raves  ; — 
That  stand,  triumphant  'mid  the  mightiest  shocks 

Of  warring  winds  or  waves, — 
0  powerful  Love  ! — majestic  as  the  star 

That  governs  Day's  bright  skies, 
And  showers  God's  boon  of  prodigal  light  afar 

On  hungering  eyes ! 

Thou  art  not  symbolised  by  any  flower 

Or  gem  that  man  has  prized  : — 
Thine  own  perennial  splendours  make  thy  power, 

0  Love,  immortalised  ! 
Thou  art  not  emblemed  by  the  wide  wild  sea 

That  belts  rich  earth  around  ! 
What  deeps  or  gulfs,  O  Love,  can  image  thee  1 

What  shores  can  bound  ? 


240  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

My  bliss,  and  bane !  when  last  I  paced  yon  strand, — 

Glad  with  assured  delight, 
I  saw  my  love's  light  shallop  leave  the  land 

And,  seaward,  wing  its  flight ! — 
The  great  round  sun  loomed  low  ; — bedraped  and  pranked 

With  black  fantastic  clouds. 
And  ah  !  the  tremulous  sky  grew  crossed  and  flanked 

With  mists  like  shrouds. 

Day  drooped  his  plumes  of  gold  : — hoarse  fiends  of  air 

Sprang  up  with  clamorous  mirth. 
Loosed  the  red  whirlwinds  from  their  thunder-lair 

And  ravaged  sea  and  earth  : — 
Fear's  palsying  films  my  dim,  strained  sight  bedewed, 

(Higher  the  bleak  brine  surged  !) 
For  in  the  storm's  blind  march  Love's  sail  I  viewed. 

Wind-driven,  sea-scourged  ! 

Than  quick  chafi",  winnowed  by  the  whirl-blast's  hand, 

Swifter  the  shallops  pace  : — 
I  saw  the  frail  blown  boat  drawn  near  the  land — 

(Near,  till  I  saw  his  face  !) 
The  wild,  wild  waves  raged,  foaming  out  their  strife. 

And  shrill  blasts  drowned  his  moan, — 
0  lost,  lost  Love  !  Hell's  malice  crushed  thy  life, — 

And  marred  mine  own  ! 

Ah  me !  cold  cradled  in  thine  oozy  home, 

Thou  grim,  pernicious  Deep, — 
'Mid  cerements  of  the  grave,  white-fringed  with  foam, 

My  perished  love  found  sleep. 
Thy  rage  set  free  his  soul  from  joys  and  cares, — 

One  touch  bade  all  surcease — 
Barred  out  Life's  raptured  hopes  and  bleak  despairs, 

And  brought  him  peace. 


PHILIP  J.  HOLDSIVORTH.  241 

All  night  the  storm--vvinds  slackened  not,  but  wailed 

Their  dirge  of  undelight :  — 
The  surge,  all  night,  spat  flakes  of  froth,  and  railed, 

Mocking  my  passionate  plight : — 
All  night  the  rain  sobbed  strange  weird  monotones, 

And  pounced  with,  furious  spite, — - 
As,  from  my  shuddering  soul,  Hope  ebbed  in  moaus  — 

In  moans — all  night ! 

Pull  eve  limps  heavily,  as  maimed  with  pain. 

And  hark  !   with  pattering  feet, 
The  night  creeps  trammelled  with  the  trampling  rain 

And  thick  with  plunging  sleet ; — 
Days  dawn  and  die  : — foul  nights  and  fair  depart, 

Nor  intermit  Grief's  song  : 
While,  like  a  battered  bird,  with  bleeding  heart 

I  linger,  0  Death,  how  long? 


QUIS  SEPARABIT? 

Heart  clings  to  heart !     Let  the  strange  years  sever 
The  fates  of  two  who  have  met  to  part- 
Love's  strength  survives,  and  the  harsh  world  never 
Shall  crush  the  passion  of  heart  for  heart ! 
For  I  know  my  life,  though  it  droop  and  dwindle, 
Shall  leave  me  love,  tiU  I  fade  and  die ; 
And  when  hereafter  our  souls  rekindle, 
"Who  shall  be  fonder,  You  or  I  ? 


242  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

FRANCIS  R.  C.  HOPKINS. 

[(,)f  Errowanbang,  Carcoar,  New  South  Wales,  author  of  the  follow- 
ing plays  : — All  for  Gold,  Good  for  Evil,  Only  a  Fool,  Russia  as 
it  is,  £.  S.  D.,  all  of  which  have  been  put  on  the  stage.] 

TO  A  LITTLE  FRIEND. 

The  ships  that  meet  upon  a  world-wide  waste 

Of  waters  in  a  peaceful  summer  calm, 

And  hail  each  other  with  a  heart-felt  joy, 

May  part,  to  meet  no  more.     At  eventide 

The  night-clouds  gather,  and  the  storm- wind  shakes 

Them  far  asunder,  on  their  watery  way. 

So  we,  indeed,  may  never  meet  again. 

Until  the  shelt'ring  haven's  reached  at  last. 

Eut  sometimes  in  your  happy  thoughts  perchance 

A  memory  of  the  bygone  trails  may  come 

And  steal  some  faint  remembrance  from  your  brain. 

May  gladsome  youth,  that  riches  cannot  buy, 

Linger  with  joyous  footsteps  in  your  way. 

And  keep  you  in  God's  sunshine  crowned  with  flowers  ! 

May  all  as  sweet  and  fair  as  you  ne'er  know 

The  marks  of  sorrow's  rude  unkindly  hand. 

While  love  and  joy  like  guiding  stars  shine  bright 

Beyond  the  friendships  of  a  callous  time. 

Ah  !  pure  and  bright  as  sparkling  mountain-dew, 

Unsullied  by  a  world  of  care  and  pain, 

Unspoiled  by  stage  tricks  of  a  social  art, 

The  great  world's  flattery  or  its  empty  praises, 

You  seem  the  shadow  of  a  summer  dream, 

And  waft  one  back  to  better,  happier  hours, 

When  we,  like  you,  were  children,  gathering  fair 

Sweet  blossoms  in  the  happy  summer  fields, 

With  care  unheeded,  and  the  past  forgot. 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HENGIST]  HORNE.      243 

Here,  in  the  midst  of  flocks  and  herds  alone, 
With  constant  round  of  busy  active  life, 
Romance  of  ev'ry  kind  or  shape  stamped  out, 
One's  nature's  dull  and  commonplace  as  lead. 
That  matters  little  if  you  only  say, 
"With  this  poor  paper  in  your  dainty  hands, 
"'Twas  time  alone,  and  age,  that  could  efface 
The  words  here  written  by  a  kindly  friend, 
AVhose  Avork  perchance  has  ceased  for  evermore." 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HEXGIST]  HORXR 

[The  Colonial  career  of  this  distinguished  English  poet  is  briefly  told. 
In  1852  he  went  to  Victoria,  and  was  appointed  to  take  charge 
of  the  Gold  Escort  between  Ballarat  and  Melbourne  ;  subse- 
quently he  held  the  office  of  ^Yarden  of  the  Blue  Mountains. 
It  was  in  this  latter  place,  which  he  describes  as  "this  Blue 
Mountain  of  dark  forests,  rains,  and  hurricanes,"  that  he  com- 
posed his  Prometheus  the  Firc-hringer.  He  wrote  occasional 
verses  in  Victoria,  and  a  cantata,  The  South  Sea  Sisters,  But 
he  will  be  remembered  in  Australia  chiefly  for  the  influence  he 
exercised  in  moulding  the  poetic  fancies  of  Kendall  and  tlie 
then  rising  school  of  Australian  poets — vide  a  sketch  in  the 
London  Acadcmi/,  March  29,  18S4,  entitled  "'Orion'  Home  in 
Melbourne,"  by  Mr.  Patchett  Martin.  R.  H.  Home  returned 
to  England  in  1869.  He  was  born  in  1803,  and  after  a  long 
and  adventurous  life — his  youth  had  been  spent  in  the  Mexican 
navy — he  died  so  recently  as  18S4  at  Margate.] 

ORION. 
BOOK    THIRD,    CANTO    THE    FIRST. 

There  is  an  age  of  action  in  the  world ; 

An  age  of  thought;  lastly,  an  age  of  both. 

When  thought  guides  action  and  men  know  themselves 

^Vhat  they  would  have,  and  how  to  compass  it. 


244  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Yet  are  not  these  great  periods  so  distinct 

Each  from  the  other, — or  from  all  the  rest 

Of  intermediate  degrees  and  powers, 

Cut  off, — but  that  strong  links  of  nature  run 

Throughout,  and  prove  one  central  heart,  wherein 

Time  beats  twin-pulses  with  Humanity. 

In  every  age  an  emblem  and  a  type. 

Premature,  single,  ending  with  itself, 

Of  loftier  being  in  an  after-time, 

May  germinate,  develop,  radiate. 

And,  like  a  star,  go  out,  and  leave  no  mark 

Save  a  high  memory.     One  such  is  our  theme. 

The  wisdom  of  mankind  creeps  slowly  on, 

Subject  to  every  doubt  that  can  retard, 

Or  fling  it  back  upon  an  earlier  time  ; 

So  timid  are  man's  footsteps  in  the  dark, 

But  blindest  those  who  have  no  inward  liglit, 

One  mind,  perchance,  in  every  age  contains 

The  sum  of  all  before,  and  much  to  come ; 

Much  that's  far  distant  still ;  but  that  full  mind, 

Companioned  oft  by  others  of  like  scope, 

Belief,  and  tendency,  and  anxious  will, 

A  circle  small  transpierces  and  illumes  : 

Expanding,  soon  its  subtle  radiance 

Ealls  blunted  from  the  mass  of  flesh  and  bone. 

The  man  who  for  his  race  might  supersede 

The  work  of  ages  dies,  worn  out — not  used, 

And  in  his  track  disciples  onward  strive. 

Some  hairs'-breadths  only  from  his  starting-point : 

Yet  lives  he  not  in  vain  ;  for  if  his  soul 

Hath  entered  others,  though  imperfectly, 

The  circle  widens  as  the  world  spins  round, — 

His  soul  works  on  while  he  sleeps  'neath  the  grass. 

So,  let  the  firm  Philosopher  renew 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HENGIST]  HORNE.      245 

His  wasted  lamp — tlie  lamp  wastes  not  in  vain, 

Though  he  no  mirrors  for  its  rays  may  see, 

Nor  trace  them  through  the  darkness ; — let  the  Hand 

Wliich  feels  primeval  impulses  direct 

A  forthright  plough,  and  make  his  furrow  broad, 

With  heart  untiring,  while  one  field  remains ; 

So,  let  the  herald  Poet  shed  his  thoughts. 

Like  seeds  that  seem  but  lost  upon  the  wind. 

Work  in  the  night,  thou  sage,  while  Mammon's  brain 

Teems  with  low  visions  on  his  couch  of  down ; — 

Break,  tliou,  the  clods  while  high-throned  Vanity, 

'Midst  glaring  lights  and  trumpets,  holds  its  courts ; — 

Sing,  thou,  thy  song  amidst  the  stoning  crowd. 

Then  stand  apart,  obscure  to  man,  with  God. 

The  Poet  of  the  future  knows  his  place, 

Though  in  the  present  shady  be  his  seat, 

And  all  his  laurels  deepening  but  the  shade. 

But  what  is  yonder  vague  and  uncouth  shape, 

That  like  a  burthened  giant  bending  moves, 

With  outspread  arms  groping  its  upward  way 

Along  a  misty  hill  ?     In  the  blear  shades, 

Sad  twilight,  and  thick  dews  darkening  the  paths 

Whereon  the  slow  dawn  hath  not  yet  advanced 

A  chilly  foot,  nor  tinged  the  colourless  air — 

The  labouring  figure  fades  as  it  ascends. 

'Twas  he,  the  giant  builder-up  of  things. 
And  of  himself,  now  blind  ;  the  worker  great, 
Who  sees  no  more  the  substance  near  his  hands, 
Nor  in  them,  nor  the  objects  that  his  mind 
Desires  and  would  embody.     All  is  dark. 
It  is  Orion  now  bereft  of  sight, 
Whose  eyes  aspired  to  luminous  designs. 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars  are  blotted  out 
AVith  tlu'ir  familiar  glories,  which  become 


246  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Henceforth  like  chronicles  remote.     The  Earth 
Forbids  him  to  cleave  deep  and  trace  her  roots, 
And  veins,  and  quarries  :  whose  wide  purposes 
Are  narrowed  now  into  the  safest  path : 
Whose  lofty  visions  are  all  packed  in  his  brain, 
As  though  the  heavens  no  further  could  unfold 
Their  wonders,  but  turned  inward  on  themselves  ; 
Like  a  bright  flower  that  closes  in  the  night 
For  the  last  time,  and  dreams  of  bygone  suns 
Ne'er  to  be  clasped  again  :  thou  art  reduced 
To  ask  for  sympathy  and  to  need  help ; 
Stooping  to  pluck  up  pity  from  all  soils — 
Bitterest  of  roots  that  round  Pride's  temple  grow, — 
Losing  self-centred  power,  and  in  its  place 
Pressed  with  humiliation  almost  down  : 
Wliose  soul  had  in  one  passion  been  absorbed, 
Which,  though  illimitable  in  itself. 
Profound  and  primal,  yet  had  wrapped  him  round 
Beyond  advance,  or  further  use  of  hand. 
Purpose  and  service  to  the  needy  Earth : 
Whose  passion,  being  less  than  his  true  scope, 
Had  lowered  his  life  and  quelled  aspiring  dreams, 
But  that  it  led  to  blindness  and  distress, 
Self-pride's  abasement,  more  extensive  truth, 
A  lighter  consciousness  and  efforts  new. 

In  that  dark  hour  when  anguished  he  awoke, 
Orion  from  the  sea-shore  made  his  way. 
Feeling  from  cliff  to  cliff,  from  tree  to  tree. 
Guided  by  knowledge  of  the  varied  tracks 
Of  land, — the  rocks,  the  mounds  of  fern,  the  grass. 
That  'neath  his  feet  made  known  each  spot  he  passed, 
Hill,  vale,  and  woodland ;  till  he  reached  the  caves. 
Once  his  rude  happy  dwelling.     All  was  silent. 
Rhexergon  and  Biastor  were  abroad. 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HENCIST]  HORNE.       247 

Searching  the  jasper  quarries  for  a  lynx 
That  had  escaped  the  wreck.     Deeply  he  sighed. 
The  quiet  freshness  came  upon  his  heart, 
Not  sweetly,  but  with  aching  sense  of  lass. 
He  felt  his  way,  and  listened  at  the  cave 
Of  Akinetos,  whom  he  heard  within 
Sing  to  himself.     And  Akinetos  rose, — 
Perceiving  he  was  blind, — and  with  slow  care 
Kolled  forth  a  stone,  and  placed  him  by  his  side. 
Orion's  tale  soon  closed ;  its  outward  acts 
And  sad  results  were  all  that  he  could  speak  : 
The  rest  writhed  inwardl}'',  and — like  the  leads 
That  sinks  the  nets  and  all  the  struggles  hide, 
Till  a  strong  hand  drags  forth  the  prize — his  words 
Kept  down  the  torment,  uttered  all  within 
In  hurrying  anguish.     Yet  the  clear,  cold  eye, 
Grey,  deep-set,  steady,  of  the  Great  Unmoved 
Saw  much  of  this  beneath,  and  thus  he  spake  : — 

"  My  son,  why  wouldst  thou  ever  work  and  build, 
And  so  bestir  thyself,  when  certain  grief, 
Mischief,  or  error,  and  not  seldom  death, 
Follows  on  all  that  individual  will 
Can  of  itself  attain  ?     I  told  thee  this : 
Nor  for  reproach  repeat  it,  but  to  soothe 
Thy  mind  with  consciousness  that  not  in  thee 
Was  failure  born.     Its  law  preceded  thine  : 
It  governs  every  act,  which  needs  must  fail — 
I  mean,  give  place — to  make  room  for  the  next. 
Each  thinks  he  fails,  because  he  thinks  himself 
A  chain  and  centre,  not  a  link  that  runs 
In  large  and  complex  circles,  all  unknown. 
Sit  stilL     Eeraain  with  me.     No  difference 
Will  in  the  world  be  found  :  'twill  know  no  change, 
Be  sure.      Sav  that  an  act  hath  been  ordained  ? 


248  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Some  hand  must  do  it :  therefore  do  not  move : 

An  instrument  of  action  must  be  found, 

And  you  escape  both  toil  and  consequence, 

Which  run  their  rounds  with  restless  fools ;  for  ever 

One  act  leads  to  another,  and  disturbs 

Man's  rest,  and  reason — Avhicli  foresees  no  end." 

"  I  feel  that  thou  are  wise,"  Orion  said ; 

"  The  worker  ever  comes  to  the  cast  down  ! 

Who  with  alacrity  would  frame,  toil,  build. 

If  he  had  wisdom  in  results  like  thee  1 

Would  strength  life's  soil  upheave,  though  close  it  clung, 

And  heavy,  like  a  spade  that  digs  in  clay, 

Therein  to  plant  roots  certain  not  to  grow  1 

0  miserable  man  !     0  fool  of  hope  ! 

All  I  have  done  has  brought  me  no  fresh  good, 

But  grief  more  bitter  as  the  bliss  was  sweet, 

]jecause  so  fleeting.     Why  did  Artemis 

Me  from  my  rough  and  useful  life  withdraw? 

O'er  wood  and  iron  I  had  mastery, 

And  hunted  shadows  knowing  they  were  shades. 

Since  then  my  intellect  she  filled,  and  taught  me 

To  hunt  for  lasting  truth  in  the  pale  moon. 

Such  proved  my  love  for  her ;  and  such  hath  proved 

]\Iy  love  for  Merope,  to  me  now  lost. 

1  will  remain  here :  I  will  build  no  more." 

He  paused.     But  Akinetos  was  asleep, 
Wherefore  Orion  at  his  feet  sank  down, 
Tired  of  himself,  of  grief,  and  all  the  Avorld, 
And  also  slept.     Ere  dawn  he  had  a  dream  : 
'Twas  hopeful,  lovely,  though  of  no  clear  sense. 
He  said,  "Methinks  it  must  betoken  good  ; 
Some  help  from  Artemis,  who  may  relent, 
And  think  of  me  as  one  she  sought  to  lift 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HENGIST]  HORNE.       249 

To  her  own  spliere  of  purity  :  or,  indeed, 

Some  God  may  deem  nie  worthy  of  a  fate 

Better  than  that  Avhich  locks  up  all  design 

In  pausing  night.     Perchance  the  dream  may  bode 

That  Merop6  shall  he  to  me  restored, 

And  I  see  nature  through  her  death-deep  eyes. 

And  know  the  glorious  mysteries  of  the  grave, 

Which,  through  extremes  of  blissful  passion's  life, 

Methought  I  saw.     0  !  wherefore  am  I  blind  1 " 

"  Abandon  all  such  hopes  of  Merope, 

Murmured  the  Great  Unmoved  :  "  her  truth  was  strong, 

First  to  herself,  and  through  herself  to  thee, 

AVhile  that  it  lasted ;  but  that's  done  and  gone. 

How  should  she  love  a  giant  who  is  blind, 

And  sees  no  beauty  but  the  secret  heart 

Panting  in  Darkness  ?     That  is  not  her  world  !  " 

Orion  rose  erect :  "  She  is  not  false — 

Although  she  may  forget.     I  will  go  forth  : 

I  may  find  aid,  or  cause  some  help  to  come 

That  shall  restore  my  sight !  "     The  Sage  replied  : 

"Thou'st  seen  enough  already,  and  too  much 

For  happiness.     This  passion  prematurely 

Endeth ;  and  therefore  endeth  as  seems  best, 

Ere  it  wear  out  itself  with  languor  and  pain. 

Or  prostrate  all  thy  mind  to  its  small  use — 

Far  worse,  methinks."     "  Hast  thou,"  Orion  cried, 

"  No  impulses — desires — no  promptings  kind  1 " 

The  Sage  his  memory  tasked ;  then  slow  replied  : 

"  Once  I  gave  M'ater  to  a  thirsty  plant : 

'Twas  a  weak  moment  with  us  both.     I^ext  morn 

It  craved  the  like — but  I,  for  Nature  calling. 

Passed  on.     It  drooped — then  died,  and  rotted  soon  ; 

And  living  things,  more  highly  organised. 

With  quick  eyes  and  fine  horns,  reproached  my  hand 


rso  AUSTRALIAN  FCETS. 

Which  had  delayed  their  Lirth.     What  wrong  we  do 

Ey  interfering  with  life's  balanced  plan  ! 

Do  nothing — wait — and  all  that  must  come,  comes  !  " 

Silent  awhile  he  stood ;  Orion  sighed  : 

"  I  know  thy  words  are  wise  " — and  went  his  way. 

The  blindness  of  their  leader,  and  his  woe, 

I^ow  had  Rhexergon  and  Biastor  learnt, 

And  thoughts  of  plunder  cried  out  for  revenge, 

Which  on  Oinopion  they  proposed  to  wreak, 

And  make  good  pastime  round  his  ruined  throne. 

"Revenge  is  useless,"  Akinetos  said: 

"  It  undoes  nothing,  and  prevents  repentance 

Which  might  advantage  others."     Both  replied, 

"  Thou  speakest  truth  and  wisdom  ;  "  and  at  eve 

Departed  for  the  city,  bent  to  choose 

Some  rebel  chieftains  for  their  aid,  or  slaves, 

Or  robbers  who  inhabited  the  rocks 

North  of  the  Isle.     A  great  revenge  they  vowed. 

And  where  was  Merop6  1     The  cruel  deed, 

Her  sire  had  compassed  for  Orion's  fall, 

Smote  through  her  full  breast,  and  at  every  beat 

Entered  her  heart ;  nor  settled  tliere,  but  coursed 

Tlirough  all  her  veins  in  anguish.     Her  despair 

Was  boundless,  many  days,  until  her  strength, 

Worn  with  much  misery  and  the  need  of  sleep, 

Gave  way,  and  slumber  opened  'neath  her  soul 

Like  an  abyss.     The  deed,  beyond  recall, 

Was  done.      She  woke,  and  thought  on  this  with  grief. 

The  cruel  separation,  and  the  loss 

Of  sight,  had  been  completed.     I*^othing  now 

Of  passion  past  remained  but  memory, 

AVhich  soon  grew  painful ;  and  her  thoughts  oft  turned, 

For  some  relief,  to  listen  to  the  songs 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HENGIST]  HORNE.      25 

That  minstrels  sang,  sent  by  the  youthful  King 
Of  Syros,  rich  in  pastures  and  in  corn. 
Beardless  he  was,  dwarf-shaped,  and  delicate, 
Freckled  and  moled,  with  saffron  tresses  fair ; 
Yet  were  his  minstrels  touched  with  secret  fires, 
And  beauty  was  the  theme  of  all  their  lays. 
Of  her  they  sang — sole  object  of  desire — 
And  with  rare  presents  the  pale  King  preferred 
His  suit  for  Merope.     Iler  sire  approved ; — 
Invited  him  ; — he  came  ; — and  Merope 
With  him  departed  in  a  high-beaked  ship, 
.And  as  it  sped  along,  she  closely  pressed 
The  rich  globes  of  her  bosom  on  the  side. 
O'er  which  she  bent  with  those  black  eyes,  and  gazed 
Into  the  sea,  that  fled  beneath  her  face. 

All  this  Orion  heard.      His  blind  eyes  wept, 

Now  Avas  each  step  a  new  experiment ; 

Within  him  all  was  care  ;  without  all  chance  ; 

Dark  doubts  sat  on  his  brain ;  danger  prowled  around. 

He  wandered  lost  and  lone,  and  often  prayed, 

Standing  beside  the  tree  'neath  which  he  slept, 

And  would  have  offered  pious  sacrifice 

But  that  himself  a  victim  blindly  strayed, 

His  forehead  dark  with  wrinkles  premature 

Of  vexing  action ;  his  cheek  scored  all  down 

With  debts  of  will  that  never  can  be  payed  ; 

Chagrin,  pain,  disappointment,  and  wronged  heart. 

At  length,  one  day,  some  shepherd  as  he  passed, 

With  voice  that  mingled  with  the  bleat  of  lambs, 

Cried,  "  Seek  the  source  of  light ! — begin  anew  1 " 

On  went  he,  thinking,  pausing,  listening, 

Till  sounds  smote  on  his  ear,  whereby  he  knew 

That  near  the  subterranean  Palace  <jates, 


252  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Which  for  Hephaistos  he  of  iron  had  framed, 
His  feet  approached.     He  entered  there,  and  found 
Brontes,  the  Cyclops,  Avhom  he  straiglit  besought 
His  shoulders  to  ascend,  and  guide  his  course 
Eastward  to  meet  the  morning  as  she  rose. 
'Twas  done.     Their  hazy  forms  erewhile  we  saw. 

Swift  down  the  misty  eastern  hill,  whose  top 
Through  broken  vapours,  swooning  as  they  creep 
Along  the  edges  into  the  wide  heavens, 
Shows  morn's  first  ruddy  gleam,  a  shape  uncouth, 
And  lumbering  forward  in  half-falls  and  bounds, 
Comes  with  tossed  arms  !    The  Cyclops,  hoar  with  rime, 
His  coarse  hair  flying,  through  the  wet  woods  ran, 
And  in  the  front  of  Akinetos'  cave, 
Shouting  the  jovial  thunder  of  his  life. 
Performed  a  hideous  but  full-hearted  dance. 
"Dance,  rocks  and  forests  !     Akinetos,  dance  ! 
The  Worker  and  the  Builder  hath  his  sight ! 
Ho  !  ho  !  come  forth — with  either  eye  he  sees  ! 
Come  forth,  0  Akinetos  !     Laugh,  ye  rocks  !  " 

A  shadow  o'er  the  face  of  him  who  sat 

Within  that  cave  passed, — wrinkling  with  slight  grains 

The  ledge-like  brow,  Avhich,  though  of  granite,  smoothed, 

Not  vexed,  by  ocean's  tempests,  now  relaxed. 

As  it  would  say,  "  I  pity  this  return 

Of  means  for  seeking  fresh  distress  ; " — and  then 

The  broad  great  features  their  fixed  calm  resumed. 

'Twas  thus  Orion  fared ;  and  this  the  scene 
Fast  through  the  clouds  retiring,  the  pale  orb 
Of  Artemis  a  moment  seemed  to  hang 
Suspended  in  a  halo,  phantom-liko, 
Over  a  restless  sea  of  jasper  fire, 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HENGIST]  HORNE.       253 

"While  beiuling  forward  towards  the  eastern  mount, 
She  gazed  and  hearkened.     Soon  the  fervent  voice 
Of  one  who  prayed  beneath,  amid  the  mist, 
Rose  thrilling  on  the  air,  and  onward  slow 
Her  car  its  voyage  hold,  and  waned  more  pale 
And  distant,  as  the  jtrayer  ascended  heaven. 

"  Eos  !  blest  Goddess  of  the  morning,  hoar 

The  blind  Orion  praying  on  thy  hill. 

And  in  thine  odorous  breath  his  spirit  steep, 

That  he,  tlie  soft  gold  of  tliy  gleaming  hand 

Passing  across  his  heavy  lids,  sealed  down 

With  weight  of  many  nights,  and  night-like  days, 

May  feel  as  keenly  as  a  new-born  child. 

And,  through  it,  learn  as  purely  to  behold 

The  face  of  Xature.      O,  restore  my  sight !  " 

His  prayer  paused  tremulous.      O'er  his  brow  he  felt 

A  balmy  beam,  that  with  its  warmth  conveyed 

Divine  snflfusion  and  deep  sense  of  peace 

Throughout  his  being ;  and  amidst  a  pile 

Far  in  the  distance,  gleaming  like  the  bloom 

Of  almond-trees  seen  through  long  floating  halls 

Of  pale  ethereal  blue  and  virgin  gold, 

A  Goddess,  smiling  like  a  new-blown  flower, 

Orion  saw  !     And  as  he  gazed  he  wept. 

The  tears  ran,  mingling  M-ith  the  morning  dews, 

Down  his  thick  locks.    At  length  once  more  he  spoke : — 

"  Blest  Eos  !  mother  of  the  hopeful  star. 
Which  I,  with  sweet  joy,  take  into  my  soul ; 
Star-rays  that  first  played  o'er  my  blinded  orbs, 
Even  as  they  glance  above  the  lids  of  sleep, 
"Who  else  had  never  known  surprise,  nor  hope, 
jN'or  useful  action ;  Golden  Visitant, 


!54  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

So  lovely  and  benign,  whose  eyes  drive  home 

Night's  foulest  ghosts,  and  men  as  foul ;  who  bring'bt 

Not  only  my  redemption,  but  who  art 

The  intermediate  beauty  that  unites 

The  fierce  sun  with  the  Earth,  and  moderates 

His  beams  with  dews  and  tenderness  and  smiles ; 

O  bird-awaken er  !  giver  of  fresh  life, 

New  hopes,  or  to  old  hopes  new  wings, — receive 

"Within  thy  care  one  who  with  many  things 

Is  weary,  and  though  nought  in  energy 

Abated  for  good  work,  would  seek  thine  aid 

To  some  fresh  course  and  service  for  his  hand  ; 

Of  peace,  meantime,  and  steadfast  truth,  secure  1 " 


ORION. 

CANTO    THE    SECOND. 

Level  with  the  summit  of  that  eastern  mount, 
By  slow  approach,  and  like  a  promontory 
Which  seems  to  glide  and  meet  a  coming  ship, 
The  pale-gold  platform  of  the  morning  came 
Towards  the  gliding  mount.     Against  a  sky 
Of  delicate  purple,  snow-bright  court  and  halls, 
Touched  with  light  silvery  green,  gleaming  across, 
Fronted  by  pillars  vast,  cloud-capitalled, 
With  shafts  of  changeful  pearl,  all  reared 
Upon  an  isle  of  clear  aerial  gold,  came  floating ; 
And  in  the  centre,  clad  in  fleecy  white. 
With  lucid  lilies  in  lier  golden  hair, 
Eos,  sweet  Goddess  of  the  morning,  stood. 
From  the  bright  peak  of  that  surrounded  mount 
One  step  sufficed  to  gain  the  tremulous  floor 
Whereon  the  Palace  of  the  morning  shone, 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HENGIST]  HORNE.      255 

Scarcely  a  bow-shot  distant ;  but  that  step 

Orion's  humbled  and  still  mortal  feet 

Dared  not  adventure.      In  the  Goddess'  face 

Imploringly  he  gazed.      "  Advance  !  "  she  said, 

In  tones  more  sweet  than  when  some  heavenly  bird, 

Hid  in  a  rosy  cloud,  its  morning  hymn 

"Warbles  unseen,  wet  with  delicious  dews. 

And  to  earth's  flowers,  all  looking  up  in  prayer, 

Tells  of  the  coming  bliss.      "  Believe — advance  ! — 

Or,  as  the  spheres  move  onward  Avith  their  song 

That  calls  me  to  awaken  other  lands. 

That  moment  will  escape  which  ne'er  returns  !  " 

Forward  Orion  stepped  :  the  platform  bright 

Shook  like  the  reflex  of  a  star  in  water 

IMoved  by  the  breeze,  throughout  its  whole  expanse ; 

And  even  the  Palace  glistened  fitfully, 

As  with  electric  shiver  it  sent  forth 

Odours  of  flowers  divine  and  all  fresh  life. 

Still  stood  he  where  he  stepped,  nor  to  return 

Attempted.     To  essay  one  pace  beyond 

He  felt  no  power — yet  onward  he  advanced 

Safe  to  the  Goddess,  who,  with  hand  outstretched, 

Into  the  Palace  led  him.     Grace  and  strength, 

With  sense  of  happy  change  to  finer  earth,  • 

Freshness  of  nature,  and  belief  in  God, 

Came  flowing  o'er  his  soul,  and  he  was  blest. 

'Tis  always  morning  somewhere  in  the  world. 

And  Eos  rises,  circling  constantly 

The  varied  regions  of  mankind.     No  pause 

Of  renovation  and  of  freshening  rays 

She  knows,  but  evermore  her  love  breathes  forth 

On  field  and  forest,  as  on  human  hope. 

Health,  beauty,  power,  thought,  action,  and  advance. 

All  this  Orion  witnessed,  and  rejoiced. 


256  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  turmoil  he  had  known,  tlie  late  distress 

By  loss  of  passion's  object,  and  of  sight, 

Were  now  exchanged  for  these  serene  delights 

Of  contemplation,  as  the  influence 

That  Eos  wrought  around  for  ever  dawned 

Upon  his  vision  and  his  inmost  heart, 

In  sweetness  and  success.     All  sympathy 

With  all  fair  things  that  in  her  circle  lay 

She  gave,  and  all  received  ;  nor  knew  of  strife ; 

For  from  the  sun  lier  cheek  its  bloom  withdrew, 

And,  ere  intolerant  noon,  the  floating  realm 

Of  Eos — queen  of  the  awakening  earth — 

A7as  brightening  other  lands,  wherefrom  black  Night 

Her  faded  chariot  down  the  sky  had  driven 

llehind  the  sea.     Thus  from  the  earth  upraised. 

And  over  its  tumultuous  breast  sustained 

In  peace  and  tranquil  glory — 0  blest  state  ! — ■ 

Clear-browed  Orion,  full  of  thankfulness, 

And  pure  devotion  to  the  Goddess,  dwelt 

Within  the  glowing  Palace  of  the  Morn. 

]^)ut  these  serene  airs  did  not  therefore  bring 
A  death-sleep  o'er  the  waves  of  memory, 
•Where  all  its  cloud  and  colours,  specks  of  sails, 
Its  car-borne  Gods,  shipwrecks  and  drowning  men, 
Passed  full  in  view ;  yet  with  a  mellowing  sense 
Ideal,  and  from  pain  sublime.     Thus  came 
Mirrors  of  nature  to  him,  and  full  oft 
Downward  on  Chios  turned  his  happy  eyes. 
With  grateful  thoughts  that  o'er  life's  sorrows  wove 
The  present  texture  of  a  sweet  content. 
Passing  all  wisdom,  or  its  rarest  flower. 
He  saw  the  woods,  and  blessed  them  for  the  sake 
Of  Artemis ;  the  city,  and  rich  gloom 
That  o'er  the  cedar  forest  ever  hunjj. 


RICHARD  HENRY  [HENGIST]  HORNE.       257 

He  also  blessed  for  Merope ;  the  Isle, 

And  all  that  dwelt  there,  lie  with  smiles  beheld, — 

Nor,'  it  may  be,  without  prophetic  thrill 

When  on  ]\Iount  Epos  turned  his  parting  glance. 

There  in  an  after  age,  close  at  its  foot, 

In  the  stone  level  was  a  basin  broad 

Scooped  out,  and  central  on  a  low  shaft  sat 

A  sage  with  silver  hair,  and  taught  his  school, 

Wliere  the  boy  Homer  on  the  stony  rim 

Sat  Avith  the  rest  around.     Bright  were  his  eyes.      ' 

With  reawakened  love,  and  sight  enlarged 

For  all  things  beautiful,  and  nobly  true 

To  the  great  elements  that  rule  the  world, 

Orion's  mind,  left  to  itself,  reviewed 

Past  knowledge,  and  of  wisdom  saw  the  fruit 

Far  nearer  than  before,  the  path  less  rough. 

The  true  possession  not  austere  and  cold. 

But  natural  in  its  strength  and  balance  just 

Of  body  and  of  soul ;  each  to  respect, 

And  to  the  other  minister,  and  both 

Their  one  harmonious  being  to  employ 

For  general  happiness,  and  for  their  OAvn. 

Such  was  the  lore  which  now  his  thoughts  attained, 

And  he  to  Eos  humbly  would  display, 

Beseeching  her  response !     She  only  gazed 

With  a  benignant  smile  upon  the  earth 

That  rolled  beneath,  and  rendered  back  the  gleam 

With  tender  radiance  over  many  a  field. 


£ 


258  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

JOHN  HOWELL. 

[Governor  of  Her  Majesty's  Jail  in  Adelaide,  South  Australia. 
In  1882  he  published  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Rose-Leaves 
from  an  Australian  Garden  (Carey  &  Page,  Adelaide).] 

TWILIGHT  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE. 

Lone  scene  of  wild  unrest  and  battling  strife, 
Where  each  torn  wave  that  leaps  upon  the  shore 

Speaks  beauty  of  its  parted  power,  and  life 
Eeads  in  its  fall  frail  man's  reflected  power, 
Where  love  rejoins  existence,  and  the  hour 

Steals  o'er  the  softened  heart  its  calm  repose, 

Where  peace,  sweet  habitant  of  Heaven,  the  flower 

Fantastic  fancy  lifts,  unfolding  throws 

Oblivion  round  each  cloud  that  o'er  life's  circle  rose. 

I  tread  the  wrinkled  beach  and  watch  the  slow 
Deep-heaving  waters  lift  the  wearied  wave, 

The  loud  wash  of  the  ceaseless  billow's  flow, 
That  flings  its  tale  along  the  listening  cave. 
And  o'er  the  dark  blue  deep  eve  meets  her  grave. 

Where  ebbing  glory  heaves  the  wave  of  light, 
And  the  last  dying  sunbeams,  pausing,  crave 

A  last  long  kiss  of  earth,  ere  gathering  night 

Shall  fold  the  sleeping-scene  slow  lessening  on  the  sight. 

I  watch  the  wave  bequeath  the  last  of  power 

In  broken  surges  beating  on  the  sand, 
Where  conscious  might  rolls  frowning  to  the  shore. 

And,  darkening,  leaps  unyielding  to  the  land ; 

Wild  waste  of  tempest,  storm,  and  rage,  the  hand 
Of  changeless  beauty  lines  thy  limpid  cheek, 

Fury  shrieks  o'er  thy  waste  her  loud  command, 
And  the  wild  winds  in  frantic  frenzy  speak 
In  laughter  through  the  storm,  and  rage  along  the  deep. 


JOHN  HOWELL.  259 

Sweet  twilight !  Avhen  the  heart  unfolds  and  sinks 

In  thoughts  unuttered,  wlien  the  tender  face 
Warms  to  the  blush  of  love,  and  fancy  links 

To  blooming  youth  sweet  innocence  and  grace  ; 

AVlien  on  the  blushing  face  mute  feelings  trace 
The  sweet  reflection  of  the  loving  breast ; 

And  dowm  tlie  tide  of  hope  thoughts,  leaping,  chase 
The  waves  of  future  bliss,  and  life's  unrest 
Forgets  its  battling  strife  to  fold  a  world  of  rest. 

The  dark  and  lovely  ocean,  speaking  life 
"With  the  low  murmur  of  a  ripple,  light 

As  dew-lipped  evening,  lifts  to  brush  the  strife 

From  off  the  streamlet's  cheek,  has  sunk ;  and  night 
Folds  round  the  blue  expanse  and  lulls  the  might 

Of  heaving  waters,  and  along  the  beach 

The  foamless  bubble  breaks,  and  glides  in  bright, 

Soft  circles  to  the  shore,  and  laughs  to  teach 

Its  murmur  to  the  shell  that  lines  its  bubbling  reach. 

O  lovely  ocean  !  could  thy  ceaseless  flow. 

Kissing  the  freedom  of  some  far-ofi'  isle, 
Eut  bear  its  mirrored  image  to  endow 

This  scene  with  some  sweet  beauty  to  beguile ; 

O  lovely  ocean  !  fling  the  floating  smile 
That  met  thy  gladdened  waters  and  imbued 

Their  beauty  with  fresh  loveliness,  to  wile 
The  slumbers  of  some  far-off  shore,  indued 
With  life  and  laughing  mirth,  and  nursed  in  solitude. 

The  cold  round  moon  smiles  from  her  distant  throne 
Above  the  zenith's  blue,  and  pausing,  gives 

Fresh  life  and  light  along  the  wedded  zone 
Of  cradled  clouds,  and  on  the  sky  revives 
The  blush  of  life.     The  silent  star  outlives 


26o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  shade  that  marred  its  beauty,  and  the  glance 
Of  love  breaks  from  its  vacant  stare,  and  drives 
The  stream  of  radiance,  where  the  far  sweet  dance 
Of  rippling  circles  lines  the  waking  wave's  advance. 

Farewell !  fond  sister  of  the  heart,  sweet  child 

Of  solitude,  thy  lovely  waters  break 
Again  in  plaintive  voices,  and  the  wild. 

Remorseless  billow  lifts  along  its  cheek 

The  frown  sleep  kissed  away,  the  ceaseless  beat 
Falls  on  the  lovely  shore  with  gurgling  plash, 

And  the  wild  beetling  crags  above  repeat 
The  thunder  of  its  fall,  and,  trembling,  dash 
The  billow's  volumed  sheet  that  hurls  its  eddying  crash. 


THE  STARS. 

Ye  soft-beaming  glories,  wherever  ye  tread. 
The  pathway  of  heaven  with  lustre  is  spread, 
Ye  glow  Avith  a  splendour  that  never  effaces 
The  smile  from  your  beautiful  heaven-born  faces  ; 
For  ever  ye  are  gilding  the  universe  round 
With  the  loveliest  beams  that  in  Nature  are  found 
No  point  unexplored,  through  the  limitless  skies, 
But  feels  the  soft  glance  of  your  beautiful  eyes. 

As  you  wander  where  systems  in  eloquence  greet, 
Unyielding,  the  skies  kiss  the  soles  of  your  feet ; 
Like  angels,  ye  skim  the  blue  platforms  above, 
Hastening  along  on  some  mission  of  love, 
With  footstep  ethereal.     Your  glories  outvie 
The  loveliest  splendours  that  garnish  the  sky  : 
The  valleys,  where  solitude  dreamlessly  lingers, 
Are  touched  by  the  print  of  your  beautiful  fingers. 


JOHN  HOWELL.  261 

Winged  heralds  of  mercy,  0,  bright  are  your  brows, 

As  you  break  the  blue  foam  from  your  heaven-rocked 

prows, 
Unravelling  the  firmament's  pavement  of  blue, 
That  your  faces  for  ever  with  joy  may  look  through. 
1^0  glories  unveiled  in  the  skies'  tranquil  line 
Can  beam  with  a  splendour  that's  equal  to  thine : 
Ye  seem  like  a  silvery  rippling  stream 
Of  enchantment,  that  flits  by  the  soul  in  a  dream. 

The  soft  mellowed  tints  from  the  light  of  your  eyes 
Seem  to  paint  with  a  halo  the  dome  of  the  skies, 
Triumphantly  streaming  with  radiance  around, 
To  the  walls  of  eternity's  uttermost  bound. 
For  ever  and  aye,  o'er  the  postern  of  night. 
Ye  march  like  a  vision  surrounded  by  light ; 
And  stemming  the  blue  shoreless  billows  of  heaven. 
Ye  sing  in  sweet  concert  your  hymns  to  the  even. 

Celestial  lanterns,  how  sweetly  ye  gaze  ! 

The  spheres,  enraptured,  stand  mute  at  your  lays ; 

Twinlfling,  ye  chant  the  love-psalms  of  the  blest, 

And,  waning,  lull  sweetly  the  darkness  to  rest. 

In  soft,  downy  regions  of  ether  ye  die. 

To  stud  the  blue  vault  of  some  nethermost  sky : 

Immortal,  ye  beam  like  some  radiant  bliss, 

Ever  wooing  this  orb  with  a  beautiful  kiss. 

The  heart  may  be  torn,  yet  with  rapture  it  thrills, 

When  the  first  blush  of  eve  paints  the  crest  of  the  liills ; 

The  heart  may  be  sad,  yet  its  strings  will  essay 

A  note  to  the  last  dying  beauties  of  day. 

Then,  0,  what  new  rapture  suffuses  my  breast 

When  I  view  the  blue  pillow  that  cradles  your  rest ! 

When  I  gaze  on  your  beauties  through  cloud-riven  bars, 

I  am  lost  to  the  Earth,  0  ye  beautiful  stars ! 


263  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF  NATURE. 

To  feel  that  softening  of  the  heart,  the  sigh 

That  oft  becomes  a  tear,  when  soft  and  low 
"We  watch  the  flame  along  the  western  sky, 

And  turn  to  heaven  to  mark  its  beauty  go ; 

To  link  far  fancies  to  the  lengthened  flow 
Of  unknown  sunsets,  beautiful  as  this  : 

These,  these  are  idle  fancies,  but  they  throw 
O'er  life's  rude  doubts  the  shadow  of  a  bliss 
We  still  would  call  a  dream,  yet  cannot  all  dismiss. 

^Vlien,  like  the  last  gaze  of  a  parting  eye, 

Made  beautiful  by  tears,  day,  loitering,  moves 
The  lingering  kisses  of  his  last  good-bye. 

And  turns  expiring  from  the  world  he  loves ; 

While  the  blush  dies  away,  and  eve  removes 
The  veil  from  every  orb  which  trembled  there, 

And  heaven  grows  beautiful  with  sounds,  and  moves 
The  silent  language  of  the  heart  to  wear, 
Lips  melting  into  words,  words  trembling  into  prayer. 

For  these  are  moments  when,  li-ke  love,  the  heart, 

Lost  in  the  folds  of  beauty's  sweet  excess, 
Made  beautiful  by  heaven,  becomes  a  part 

Of  that  sweet  heaven  and  all  its  loveliness ; 

And  thoughts  grown  more  than  thoughts  on  lips 
that  press, 
Like  folded  flowers,  the  love-made  music  there, 

Glide  out  unconscious  of  their  sweet  caress, 
And  mingle  with  the  calm  that  everywhere 
Floats  through  the  troubled  sense,  and  yet  seem  absent 
there. 


JOHN  HOWELL.  263 

Out  -with  the  silent  night,  when  man  seems  part 

Of  all  he  looks  upon,  and  lingering  here, 
Tlie  deep  calm  settles  on  the  silent  heart, 

So  soft,  so  low,  so  absent,  yet  so  near. 

Out  with  those  laughing  sentinels  that  peer 
Down  on  the  wrecks  of  human  hope,  and  all 

So  like  yon  world  that  glimmers  sweetly  there, 
A  mimicked  semblance,  that  would  still  recall 
The  loveliness  of  life,  to  hide  that  life's  young  fall 

I've  watched  the  stars  until  they  seemed  to  grow 

The  mirrors  of  that  moment  when  the  heart 
Forgets  itself  and  all  of  life,  to  know 

What  seems  like  love,  yet  love  cannot  impart. 

All  that  is  beautiful,  yet  forms  a  part 
lleyond  the  beautiful  in  life,  to  live 

The  shadow  of  a  presence,  that  can  start 
All  that  we  wish  to  say,  yet  cannot  give. 
Thoughts  told  in  throbs,  not  words,  prayer — formed  for 
heaven  to  breathe. 

For,  like  this  human  life,  each  nature  holds 

A  portion  of  that  principle  which  moves 
A.11  feelings  to  one  centre,  and  unfolds 

The  wordless  breathings  of  a  thousand  loves. 

Yon  far-off  moon,  that,  like  a  flower,  dissolves 
Itself  in  sweetness,  mountains,  waves,  and  skies, 

All  seem  the  lips  where  one  great  truth  resolves 
Its  beauty  for  an  utterance  that,  like  eyes, 
Breathes  out  the  living  soul  from  'neath  its  rude  disguise. 


264  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


BESIDE  THE  SEA. 

Down  beside  tlie  restless  ocean  and  its  troubled  tones  of 
sadness, 
With  my  last  hope  left  in  fragments,  like  its  surges  on 
the  shore, 
I  can  watch  the  waters  laughing,  in  the  mimicked  smile  of 
gladness, 
And,  like  them,  hide  all  the  sadness  that  still  lingers 
.  in  the  roar. 

And  my  thought  runs  back  to  childhood,  with  its  sunshine 
and  the  gleaming 
That  looks  brighter   through  the    darkness   that   has 
gathered  o'er  its  way ; 
And  the  pleasant  fancies  weaving  things  that  are  not 
dreams,  yet  seeming. 
Lift  the  phantoms  of  a  beauty  that  a  life  has  breathed 
away. 

For  the  dead  and  dying  fragrance  of  the  earliest  flower 
we  cherished, 
For  the  love  so  like  the  shadow  of  a  presence  now  no 
more, 
How  each  heart  forgets  its  future,  to  revive  the  hour  that 
perished, 
And   to   ask   again   the   solace   that  its  beauty  gave 
before ! 

But  how  ghost-like  on  the  morrow  broods  the  shadow 
of  the  sorrow, 
Still  reproving,  never  moving  from  the  wrong  it  comes 
to  chide  ! 


JOHN  LIDDELL  KELLY.  265 

And  how  oft  the  hefirt  must  borrow  all  that  shame  and 
all  that  sorrow 
For  the  wrong  that  would  not  follow  with  the  one  who 
sinned  and  died  ! 

IIow   the   secret,    sad    complaining  of   the   waters   ever 
gaining, 
Laughing,  sighing,  surging,  dying,  with  a  grief  so  like 
our  own, 
]jreathes  a  music  ever  framing  sounds  of  sadness,  while 
the  feigning 
Of  a  gladness  still  remaining,  laughs  above  the  mournful 
moan  ! 

And  whene'er  the  past  comes  stealing  with  its  shadows, 
still  concealing 
All  the  sunshine  that  would   linger  on   the  hour  as 
yet  unknown, 
I  can  walk  the  beach,  appealing  for  the  solace  of  that 
feeling 
That  the  waters  seem  revealing  in  a  voice  half  like 
my  own. 


JOHN  LIDDELL  KELLY. 

[Born  in  Lanarkshire,  Scotland,  19th  February  1 850.  From 
compositor  rose  to  reporter  ;  emigrated  to  New  Zealand  on 
account  of  failing  health.  Author  of  "Prize  Jubilee  Poem" 
in  competition  open  to  New  Zealand.  Now  engaged  as  sub- 
editor of  Auckland  Star.  Visited  South  Sea  Islands  two  years 
ago,  and  got  material  for  poems  on  Tahitian,  Samoan,  and 
Tongan  life  and  scenery.  Author  of  libretto  of  comic  opera, 
Pomare ;  or.  Love  in  Topsy-Turvcijdom ;  and  Tahiti,  the  Land 
of  Love  and  Beaxity ;  also  Tarawera  ;  or,  the  Curse  of  Tuhotu — ■ 
descriptive  of  the  volcanic  eruption  in   1886.      John  Liddell 


266  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Kelly  is  mentioned  and  poems  quoted  in  a  volume  published, 
entitled  A  Hundred  Scottish  Poets.  Collected  works  not  yet 
published.  James  Kelly,  brother  of  John  Liddell  Kelly,  who 
wrote  the  volume,  The  Printers^  Carnival,  and  other  Poems, 
died  seven  years  ago.  Father  was  also  poetical.  John  Liddell 
Kelly  wrote  a  great  many  humorous  verses  for  a  society  journal, 
the  Auckland  Observer,  while  it  was  edited  by  W.  A.  T.  Rath- 
bone,  now  of  London.] 


Introductory. 

The  pivotal  incidents  of  this  poem— Tuhotu's  four  days'  burial 
beneath  volcanic  debris,  his  rescue  alive,  and  his  denunciation  by 
his  people  as  a  wizard, — are  well-authenticated  episodes  of  the 
Tarawera  eruption  of  loth  June  iS86.  It  is  also  asserted  that 
Tuhotu  had,  in  general  terms,  predicted  disaster  to  the  natives  of 
the  devastated  district,  whose  immoralities  he  strongly  condemned. 
The  type  of  Maori  character  of  which  Tuhotu  was  a  representative 
will  soon  be  as  extinct  as  the  moa.  Learned  in  Maori  lore,  as  well  as 
in  the  "  new  superstition  "  of  Christianity,  he  kept  up  the  reputation 
of  a  prophet  among  his  people,  many  of  whom  have  a  lingering  faith 
in  the  ancient  mythology  of  the  race.  He  is  therefore  depicted  as 
holding  a  dual  kind  of  belief  in  Maori  superstitions  and  Christian 
doctrines,  a  concept  whose  reasonableness  is  proved  by  the  adherence 
of  many  intelligent  natives  to  the  "  Hauhau  "  religion  ;  but  towards 
the  close  of  the  poem  Tuhotu's  expression  of  doubt  as  to  the 
reality  of  his  "  vision"  indicates  that  the  purer  faith  was  becoming 
dominant. 


TARAWERA  :  OR,  THE  CURSE  OF  TUHOTU. 


Tuhotu's  Eesurrection. 

Scenes  of  horror,  sounds  of  wailing, 
Wild  confusion,  woe,  and  dread  ; 

Earth  abysmal,  yawning,  rocking ; 

Flames  and  smoke  in  heavens  o'erhoad. 


JOHN  LIDDELL  KELLY.  267 

Mountains  reeling,  thunders  pealing, 

Mixed  with  roarings  from  below  ; 
Lightnings  flashing,  tempests  crashing, 

Surges  dashing  to  o'erflow  1 


Tarawera's  triple  mountain, 

Bellowing,  belching  balls  of  fire, 

Streams  of  lava,  showers  of  ashes, 
Smoke  from  Nature's  funeral  pyre  ! 

Children,  women,  men  in  terror. 
Fleeing,  shrieking,  seeking  aid ; 

Others  stricken  helpless,  lifeless — 
On  a  fiery  bier  low  laid ; 

Starving  cattle,  seeking  vainly 
Leaf  of  tree  or  blade  of  grass  : — 

Such  the  scene  at  fair  "Wairoa 
(Fair  no  longer  now,  alas  !) 

"When  we  rescued  from  his  whare, 
Whelmed  in  fiery  lava's  tide, 

Old  Tuhotu,  as  he  crouched  there, 
With  his  Bible  at  his  side ! — 

Old  Tuhotu,  famed  Tohunga — 

Priest  and  prophet — wooed,  yet  feared. 

With  the  snows  of  fivescore  winters 
Gleaming  on  his  head  and  beard  ! 

Strangely  stared  he  when  he  saw  us, 
Yet  not  vacant  was  his  look  ; 

Words  of  prayer  we  heard  him  mutter, 
Firmly  clasping  still  the  book. 


268  .  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  Hasten  ! "  cried  we.      "  Fire-bolts  threaten ; 

Flee  for  safety  while  you  may  !  " 
"  Nay,"  he  answered,  "  leave  me,  leave  me  ; 

God  is  angyy  3  I  Would  pray  ! " 

Forth  we  dragged  him,  still  resisting, 
From  his  four  days'  vigil  lone — 

Four  days  buried,  darkling,  fasting, 
'Neath  a  drift  of  mud  and  stone  ! 

Ilim  we  bore  to  Kotorua^ 
Eescued  from  a  living  tomb — 

'Mid  a  rain  of  fiery  ashes, 

Earthquake  shocks,  and  sounds  of  doom. 

Tall  of  stature,  grave  of  feature, — 
Graver,  sadder,  seemed  he  now  ; 

Marks  of  lonely,  long  communing 
Sat  upon  his  stately  brow. 

Quailed  the  Maoris  at  his  glances, 
Trembling,  fled  they  from  his  sight. 

Crying,  "  Wizard  !  wherefore  come  you 
Back  from  realms  of  Death  and  Night  1 

See  your  doing  !  Fire  and  ruin, 
Buried  village,  pasture  burned  ! 

Is  your  vengeance  not  yet  sated. 
That  to  curse  us  you've  returned  1 " 

Gently  tended  we  Tuhotu, 

Rest  and  viands  bade  him  take, 

Then,  in  answer  to  our  questions, 
Slowly,  sadly,  thus  he  spake  : — 


JOHN  LIDDELL  KELLY.  269 

II. 

TUHOTU    MADE   A    PaKEHA. 

"Why  have  you  brought  me  hither?     Why  did  ye  break 

my  trance, 
When  I  commune  held  with  spirits  on  Reinga's  shadowy 

shore  ? 
You  say  'twas  the  Atua  led  you, — there  is  no  such  thing 

as  chance. 
Good!     'Tis  the  will  of  the  Father;  I  will  complain  no 

more. 

Sad  is  my  heart  for  my  people,  o'ertaken  by  fiery  fate ; 
Sadder  still  for  the  living,  whose  souls  refuse  the  light, 
Who  curse  me,  revile  me,  disown  me,  and  thrust  me  forth 

from  their  gate, 
As  a  foul  and  fell  magician,  in  league  with  the  powers  of 

night. 

Outcast,  despised,  and  friendless,  why  should  I  live  alone  ] 
Sure  'tis  the  curse  of  Knowledge ; — but  a  wise  man  should 

be  brave ; 
And  Christ,  earth's  greatest  Prophet,  was  hated  and  killed 

by  His  own. 
But  He  rose,  like  me,  in  triumph  from  darkness  and  the 

grave  ! 

Yes ;  'tis  the  curse  of  Knowledge  ! — to  know  of  impend- 
ing wrath. 

To  see  o'er  a  sinful  people  uplifted  the  hand  of  God, 

To  know  that,  despite  all  warning,  not  one  will  forsake 
the  path 

Till  all  sliall  be  crushed  to  powder  beneath  the  avenging 
rod  ! 


270  A  US  TEA  LI  AN  POE  TS. 

Wizard,  the  people  call  me ;  they  would  kill  me  did  they 

dare — 
But  they  said  He  had  a  devil  when  Love  was  His  golden 

rule  .  .  . 
Should  I  not  deem  it  an  honour  His  deep  dishonour  to 

share  1  .  .  . 
Only  the  wise  know  wisdom,  'tis  folly  alone  to  the  fool ! 

Fools  !  to  believe  that  I  willed  it,  when  I  warned  them 
of  coming  doom  ! 

'Tis  well  that  they  have  disowned  me ;  a  Palceha  hence- 
forth I. 

The  Pakeha's  God  was  with,  me  as  I  lay  in  my  living 
tomb, 

And  He  sent  you  to  my  rescue  that  I  might  not  in  darkness. 
die. 

Gone  are  the  people  to  judgment ;  of  their  blood  my  hands 

are  clean ; 
I  will  leave  them  to  God's  great  mercy,  and  dry  my  useless 

tears. 
Let  me  tell  you  the  vision  I  saw  of  the  awful  final  scene, 
And  the  warning  I  loaf'  since  uttered  in  vaiu  to  idle  ears. 


HI. 

The  Curse. 

"  Woe  to  the  seekers  of  pleasure  ! 

Woe  to  the  Maori  race  ! 

Woe  to  this  time  and  place ! 
For  filled  is  the  wrathful  measure, 

And  vengeance  cometh  apace ; 
Only  a  little  space 


JOHN  LIDDELL  KELLY.  27I 

Aud  a  man  will  give  all  liis  treasure 

To  be  hid  from  the  angry  face 
Of  a  justly  incensed  God  ! 
The  earth  shall  quake  at  His  nod, 

And  the  hills  dissolve  in  fire 

Before  His  enkindled  ire  ! 

"Woe  to  "Wairoa  the  gay  ! 
I  see  her,  at  close  of  day, 

Go,  like  a  child,  to  sleep  ; 
I  see  her,  ere  morning  breaks, 
Wake,  as  a  madman  wakes 

From  a  dream  of  the  nethermost  deep ! 

The  earth  is  rent  asunder. 

The  heavens  are  black  as  a  pall ; 

The  bright  flames  rise  and  fall ; 
Deep  rumbhngs  come  from  under. 

While  high  in  the  air, 

'^lid  the  lightning's  glare, 
Bellows  the  angry  thunder  ! 

Wairoa  is  gone — is  fled — - 

The  wicked  ones  all  are  dead  ! 

Woe  to  Ariki  the  proud  ! 

Humbled  shall  be  her  pride. 

She  smiles  on  the  fair  hillside  ; 
But  I  see  the  gathering  cloud — 
I  hear  the  mutterings  loud. 
0  God  !  the  cloud  has  burst  1 

In  a  rain  of  living  fire 

I  see  Ariki  expire. 
By  sloth  and  sin  accurst ! 

Woe  unto  Moura  !  woe  ! 

She  is  dreaming  of  peace  and  rest, 
Like  a  bird  in  its  quiet  nest, 


27?  .  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

While  the  blue  lake  lies  below ; 
Her  sons  to  folly  wander  ; 

The  stranger's  gold  they  claim  ; 
To  the  stranger's  vice  they  pander — • 

They  sell  her  daughters'  shame  ! 
God  stamps  his  foot  in  anger, 
The  earth's  foundations  shake  j 
For  Moura  weep, 
She  lieth  deep 
In  Tarawera's  lake, 

Waitangi,  thy  waters  of  wailing 
Are  lamenting,  unavailing, 

Too  late  to  avert  thy  doom  ! 
Too  late  doth  tliy  conscience  waken, 
For,  in  sin  and  shame  o'ertaken, 

Thy  glory  shall  sink  in  gloom  ! 
Mourn,  ye  weeping  waters, 
The  fate  of  your  sons  and  daughters 

Who  sleep  in  a  nameless  tomb  1 

Deep  and  eternal  shame, 

Bitter  and  endless  woe, 
To  each  tribe  of  ancient  name  ! 
They  shall  perish  in  vengeful  flame, 

And  sink  to  the  realm  of  Po  ! 
Weep,  Ngatitoi,  Tuhourangi, 
Weep  for  Wairoi,  Waitangi, 

Ariki,  and  Moura  the  fair ; 
They  have  drunk  of  the  wine  of  pleasure, 
And  now  they  must  drain  a  measure 

Of  sorrow  and  dire  despair ; 
They  have  heard  with  scoffs  and  scorning 
The  voice  of  solemn  warning ; 

God  striketh,  and  will  not  spare ! " 


JOHN  LIDDELL  KELLY.  273 

IV. 

Superstition  and  Religion. 

He  ended,  and  sudden  a  murmur 

Arose  in  the  street  without ; 
The  murmur  grew  to  a  tumult ; 

From  the  tumult  there  came  the  shout 
Of  a  hundred  angry  voices, 

Joined  in  one  vengeful  cry — 
"  Death  to  the  hated  wizard 

Who  has  made  our  people  die ! 

Death  to  the  fierce  Tuhotu, 

Who  has  stirred  up  Maui's  ire, 
And  whelmed  our  homes  and  pastures 

In  a  flood  of  sacred  fire — 
The  fire  from  Hawaiiki, 

Brought  to  our  chief  of  old, 
Great  Ngatoroirangi, 

When  perishing  with  cold  ! 

The  fire  that  came  as  a  blessing, 

Tuhotu  has  made  a  curse  ; 
He  is  fit  to  live  no  longer, 

His  wicked  plans  to  nurse  ! 
IMany  have  died  and  suffered 

By  the  spell  of  his  evil  eye ; 
We  appeal  to  the  law  of  Moses, 

Which  says  that  he  must  die  ! 

Give  us  the  grey  old  wizard 

Who  has  wrought  us  so  much  ill ; 

No  mortal  man  may  harm  him — 
Is'o  human  liand  may  kill ; 

S 


274  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

But  we'll  bear  him  to  Tarawera ; 

He  must  enter  the  pit  of  fire, 
And  appease  the  unquiet  spirits 

"Whom  he  roused  to  vengeance  dire  1 " 

Then  we  heard,  in  gentle  accents, 

A  voice  persuasive  speak, 
Telling  that  God's  was  vengeance, 

And  the  earth  was  for  the  meek ; 
Tliat  One  who  was  greater  than  Moses 

A  better  law  had  given — 
To  forgive  an  erring  brother 

To  seventy  times  seven. 

And  the  Maoris,  as  they  listened 

To  the  missionary  priest, 
Were  shamed  from  their  wild  intention, 

And  the  angry  tumult  ceased.  .   .  . 
And  Tuhotu,  who  ne'er  had  trembled. 

Or  quailed  his  fearless  glance, 
Told  of  the  vision  of  ruin 

He  saw  in  his  four  days'  trance. 


TuHOTu's  Vision. 

"  The  night  had  fallen  soft  and  calm, 
.     Wairoa  lay  in  slumber  deep, 
I  sang  in  peace  my  evening  psalm, 
But  something  said  I  must  not  sleep. 

Wrapped  in  my  rug,  I  sat  and  read, 
From  Jeremiah's  warning  page, 

Nor  knew  the  midnight  hour  had  flecJ, 
So  closely  did  the  theme  engage. 


JOHN  LIDDELL  KELLY.  275 

O'er  Israel's  pictured  woes  I  wept, 
And  sadness  o'er  ray  soul  held  sway, 

And  yearning  feelings  o'er  me  crept, 
For  brethren  in  this  later  day ; 

I  know  not  if  I  waked  or  slept 
If  hours  or  moments  passed  away  1 

The  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead 

Who  sleep  on  Tarawera  hill, 
Innumerous,  hovered  round  my  head ; 

I  knew  tlieir  presence  boded  ill ; 
But  one  was  by  my  side  who  said 

To  my  heart-throbbings,  '  Peace,  be  still  1 ' 

I  felt  this  visit  was  the  sign 

Of  trouble  in  these  sinful  years ; 
But,  in  an  ecstasy  divine, 

I  soon  forgot  earth's  cares  and  fears. 

Communing  with  my  visitants. 

No  more  my  fearful  bosom  pants , 

My  eyes  are  tijtped  with  heavenly  light, 

And  clear  as  day  appears  the  night. 

'  Come  forth  with  us,'  the  Spirits  say, 

And  in  spirit  with  them  I  haste  away 

Out  'neath  the  clear  and  star -lit  sky, 

With  the  villages  slumbering  peacefully 

On  the  marge  of  Tarawera  Lake, 

Our  way  through  the  pure  mid-air  we  take. 

With  one  consent  we  stay  our  flight, 
And  gaze,  as  from  a  mountain  height, 
Down  on  Mahana's  steaming  flood, 
Near  that  enchanted  spot  where  stood 


276  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Those  terraced  pathways  to  the  sky — 
Twin  stairways  that  the  gods  might  mount — ■ 
Te  Kupurangi's  cloudy  fount, 
Tarata's  pure  white  tracery  ! 

INIahana's  Lake,  this  night  of  June, 
Lies  placid  'neath  the  crescent  moon, 
Save  in  the  central  part,  where  sleeps 
The  Tanmha,  in  troubled  dreams, 
And,  ever  restless  turning,  seems 
To  agitate  the  boiling  deeps  ! 
See,  how  he  tosses  and  tumbles  ! 
Hark  !  how  he  mutters  and  grumbles. 
And  shakes  his  clanking  chain  ! 
Wild  is  the  dream  he  is  dreaming, 
For  the  lake  is  boiling  and  steaming. 
And  hissing  and  spitting  amain 

A  fiercer  struggle  and  stronger  ! 
His  bonds  contain  him  no  longer ; 
From  his  dream  the  monster  wakes- 
Wakes  with  a  thunderous  roar. 
Leaps  with  a  force  that  shakes 
The  lake's  firm  bottom  and  shore  ! 
Through  the  earth,  quick  cleft  in  twain, 
He  sinks  to  his  fiery  home  ; 
The  water  follows  amain — 
There's  a  rushing  and  gleaming  of  foam, 
And  Mahana's  Lake  so  blue 
Has  vanished  like  morning  dew  ! 
Yes  ;  the  beauteous  lake  has  for  ever  fled  : 
Where  its  waters  smiled  there  rise  instead 
Thick  clouds  of  smoke,  white  wreaths  of  steam, 
While  in  the  midst  the  red  flames  gleam. 


JOHN  LIDDELL  KELLY.  277 

A  moment's  silence  and  once  more 
Earth  trembles  to  the  monster's  roar, 
As,  bursting  from  his  den, 
He  cleaves  high  Tarawera  Hill 
To  wreak  his  wild  and  evil  will 
On  weak  and  sinful  man  ! 

Bursts  Tarawera,  Wahanga, 
Bursts  Ruawahia's  height 
Into  flames  that  illume  the  night; 
The  earth,  as  in  fits  of  anger, 
Vomits,  with  terrible  clangour, 
Mud,  and  lava,  and  rocks. 
While,  answering  to  the  shocks, 
The  heavens  rebellow  in  might. 

I  see  men  wake  from  their  sleeping 
To  praying  and  cursing  and  weeping ! 
O  Heaven  !  the  strong  man  falls, 
Struck  down  in  the  throes  of  death ; 
The  child  to  the  mother  calls, — 
Poor  mother !  her  last  faint  breath 
Is  spent  in  a  fruitless  prayer 
For  the  son  of  her  love  and  care  ! 
The  sire  and  the  daughter  he  cherished, 
The  chief  and  the  crouching  slave ; 
The  strong  and  the  weak  have  perished, 
And  sleep  in  one  common  grave ! 

How  sad  was  Rangiheua's  fate 

(Oft  did  he  boast,  with  mien  elate, — 

Toll  taking  at  the  Terrace  gate — 

Of  all  his  wealth  and  power  !) 

On  Puwai's  Isle  I  saw  him  sleep 

When  hell  broke  from  the  placid  deep ; 


278  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

For  Ngatitoi  lament  and  weep  ! — 
All  perished  in  that  hour, 
When  tepid  bath  and  terraced  steep 
Were  ■\vhelmed  in  fiery  shower  ! 

Fell  ruin  wraps  each  dwelling-place 
Of  people  of  my  tribe  and  race ; 
A  hundred  of  my  kinsmen  die 
In  fear  and  mortal  agony — 
Some  gulfed  in  waves  that  boil  and  hiss, 
Some  slain  by  bolts  of  living  fire, 
Some  plunged  into  a  dark  abyss, 
While  some  of  terror's  pangs  expire ! 

I  gaze  upon  a  little  hut 
Where  thickest  fall  the  mud  and  rocks ; 
Within  is  one  whose  eyes  are  shut, 
Wlio  takes  no  note  of  earthquake  shocks. 
Nor  seems  to  heed  the  fearful  rain 
That  on  the  groaning  roof-trees  beats, 
But  something  to  himself  repeats, 
As  one  who  wanders  in  his  brain ! 

'Tis  weirdly  strange  ;  but,  as  I  look 
On  him  who  sits  and  clasps  his  book, 
]My  own  the  form  and  features  seem  : 
The  hut  is  mine ;  yet  am  not  I 
Out  'neath  the  lurid  burning  sky  1 
Am  I  awake,  or  do  I  dream  1 

My  mind  is  dark ;  I  cannot  say 
If  Fact  or  Fantasy  held  sway. 
I  fain  would  tell  the  wondrous  lore 
That  Arawa's  grey  fathers  told 
To  me  on  Reinga's  awful  shore : 
All  that  shall  be,  and  was  before. 
Was  to  my  vision  clear  unrolled. 


JOHN  LID  DELL  KELLY.  279 

I  live,  the  last  of  all  my  tribe, 
And  must  not  lock  within  my  breast 
The  things  they  gave  me  to  describe. — 

But  leave  me  now,  for  I  would  rest." 


VI. 

The  Rest  in  Silence. 

Tenderly  we  nursed  Tuhotu, 
But  his  soul  seemed  far  away  ; 

Earth  no  longer  seemed  to  claim  him, 
Weaker  grew  he  day  by  day, 

Till  his  spirit  bursts  its  prison, 
And  with  features  glorified, 

As  beholding  some  grand  vision, 
With  a  Christian's  faith  he  died. 

None  of  all  his  race  or  kindred 
Raised  the  tangi's  mournful  cry ; 

In  the  green  churchyard  we  laid  him, 
And  his  secrets  with  him  lie ! 

Thus  the  last  of  the  Tohungas 

Perished,  with  his  wondrous  lore — 

Passed  away  to  join  his  fathers 
On  Te  Reinga's  blessed  shore. 

Still,  at  lovely  Rotorua 

Smiles  the  lake  and  shines  the  sun ; 
But  from  frowning  Tarawcra 

Ever  rise  the  vapours  dun. 

Towering  in  a  cloudy  pillar. 
Bidding  men  their  sins  forsake. 

Telling  them  of  old  Tuhotu, 
And  the  fearful  curse  he  spake. 


28o  A  USTRA  LI  AN  POE  TS. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL. 

[Henry  Clarence  Kendall,  usually  known  simply  as  Henry  Kendall, 
"  the  Poet  of  New  South  Wales,"  was  born  at  Ulladulla,  on 
the  coast  of  that  colony,  in  1842.  He  is  the  one  Australian 
poet  known  to  fame,  except  his  forerunner,  Charles  Harpur, 
who  was  actually  born  under  the  Southern  Cross.  His  grand- 
father had  been  a  missionary  under  the  famous  English  chap- 
lain, Samuel  Marsden  ;  and  his  father,  Basil  Kendall,  who 
had  a  romantic  and  roving  career  in  the  "  early  days,"  finally 
made  an  attempt  to  settle  down,  and  married  a  lady  of  Irish 
extraction,  named  Melinda  M'Nally,  whom  he  had  seen  for  the 
first  time  on  the  preceding  day.  The  first  fruits  of  this  strange 
union  was  a  birth  of  twins,  one  of  whom  became  the  poet, 
Henry  Kendall. 

The  childhood  of  the  poet  was  entirely  passed  in  the  lonely 
bush  around  Ulladulla ;  and  of  methodical  education  he  had 
little.  Some  part  of  his  early  youth  was  spent  in  a  whaling- 
ship  in  the  South  Seas,  but  he  made  his  first  real  start  in  life 
when  he  became  clerk  at  sixteen  years  of  age  to  a  lawyer 
named  Michael,  a  man  of  literary  tastes,  and  himself  a  poet. 
It  was  poor  Michael,  who  eventually  drowned  himself  in  the 
Clarence,  who  first  inspired  Henry  Kendall  "  to  build  the  lofty 
rhyme."  His  literary  career  began  in  the  "Poet's  Corner"  of 
Sir  Henry  Parkes'  journal,  the  Empire.  Parkes  was  always  a 
true  friend  to  Kendall,  who  at  this  tiaie  made  Charles  Harpur's 
acquaintance.  Like  most  Colonial  rhymsters,  poor  Kendall 
was  but  ill  appreciated  by  his  more  vigorous,  less  poetic  fellow- 
colonists  ;  so  he  sent  a  bundle  of  his  MSS.  to  the  London 
Athenceum,  and  to  his  own  exceeding  joy,  and  the  great  discom- 
fiture of  his  local  critics,  three  of  the  poems  found  a  place  in 
the  columns  of  that  acknowledged  arbiter  of  the  helles  lettres. 
This  encouraged  him  to  correct  his  fugitive  verses  and  publish 
Songs  and  Poems  (1862),  which  he  afterwards  suppressed  as 
"crude."  He  now  found  ready  access  to  all  the  Colonial 
journals  of  Melbourne  as  well  as  Sydney.  His  subsequent 
volume,  Leaves  from  an  Australian  Forest,  is  that  on  which  his 
fame  chiefly  rests.  To  praise  it  afresh  is  superfluous,  as  its 
best  pieces  are  already  as  familiar  in  Australia  as  anything  of 
Tennyson  or  Wordsworth.  Afterwards  Kendall  published 
Songs  from  the  Mmintains,  which,  however,  showed  no  .idvance 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  281 

on  the  earlier  collection.  He  migrated  to  Melbourne,  but 
returned  to  New  South  Wales,  where  he  died  on  the  ist  of 
August  1882,  at  Redfern,  near  Sydney.  He  was  at  the  time 
Inspector  of  Forests,  an  official  post  which  his  friend,  Sir  Henry 
Parkes,  had  bestowed  upon  him.  Henry  Kendall  married,  in 
1867,  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Rutter  of  Woolloomooloo,  Sydney,  to 
whose  affection  and  fidelity  through  a  life  of  much  hardship  and 
sorrow  he  pays  more  than  one  touching  poetical  tribute.] 

DEDICA  TION. 

(To  His  Wife.) 

To  her  wlio,  cast  with  me  in  trying  days, 
Stood  in  the  place  of  health  and  power  and  praise  ; 
"Who,  when  I  thought  all  light  was  out,  became 
A  lamp  of  hope  that  put  my  fears  to  shame ; 
"Who  faced  for  love's  sole  sake  the  life  austere 
That  waits  upon  the  man  of  letters  here  ! 
"Who,  unawares,  her  deep  affection  showed 
By  many  a  touching  little  wifely  mode ; 
Whose  spirit,  self-denying,  dear,  divine, 
Its  sorrows  hid,  so  it  might  lessen  mine. 
To  her,  my  bright,  best  friend,  I  dedicate 
This  book  of  songs — 'twill  help  to  compensate 
For  much  neglect.     The  act,  if  not  the  rhyme, 
Will  touch  her  heart,  and  lead  her  to  the  time 
Of  trials  past.     That  which  is  most  intense 
Within  these  leaves  is  of  her  influence ; 
And  if  aught  here  is  sweetened  with  a  tone 
Sincere,  like  love,  it  came  of  love  alone. 


CLEONE. 

SiNQ  her  a  song  of  the  sun  : 

Fill  it  with  tones  of  the  stream, — 

Echoes  of  waters  that  run 

Glad  with  the  gladdening  gleam. 


282  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Let  it  be  sweeter  than  raiu 
Lit  by  a  tropical  moon  : 

Light  in  the  words  of  the  strain, 
Love  in  the  ways  of  the  tune. 

Softer  than  seasons  of  sleep : 

Dearer  than  life  at  its  best ! 
Give  her  a  ballad  to  keep, 

Wove  of  the  passionate  West : 
Give  it,  and  say  of  the  hours — 

"  Haunted  and  hallowed  of  thee, 
Flower-like  woman  of  flowers, 

What  shall  the  end  of  them  be  ? 

You  that  have  loved  her  so  much. 

Loved  her  asleep  and  awake, 
Trembled  because  of  her  touch, 

What  have  you  said  for  her  sake  ? 
Far  in  the  falls  of  the  day, 

Down  in  the  meadows  of  myrrh, 
What  has  she  left  you  to  say, 

Filled  with  the  beauty  of  her  'i 

Take  her  the  best  of  your  thoughts. 

Let  them  be  gentle  and  grave. 
Say,  "  I  have  come  to  thy  courts, 

Maiden,  with  all  that  I  have. 
So  she  may  turn  with  her  sweet 

Face  to  your  love  and  to  you, 
Learning  the  way  to  repeat 

Words  that  are  brighter  than  dew. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  2S3 


COOGEE. 

Sing  the  song  of  wave-worn  Coogee — Coogee  in  the  dis- 
tance white, 

With  its  jags  and  points  disrupted,  gaps  and  fractures 
fringed  with  hght ; 

Haunt  of  gledes  and  restless  plovers  of  the  melancholy 
wail, 

Ever  lending  deeper  pathos  to  the  melancholy  gale. 

There,  my  brothers,  down  the  fissures,  chasms  deep  and 
wan  and  wild. 

Grows  the  sea-bloom,  one  that  blushes  like  a  shrinking 
fair  blind  child ; 

And  amongst  the  oozing  forelands  many  a  glad  green  rock- 
vine  runs, 

Getting  ease  on  earthy  ledges  sheltered  from  December 
suns. 

Often,  when  a  gusty  morning,  rising  cold  and  grey  and 

strange. 
Lifts  its  face  from  watery  spaces,  vistas  full  with  cloudy 

change, 
Bearing  up  the  gloomy  burden  which  anon  begins  to 

wane. 
Fading   in   the   sudden   shadow   of  a  dark    determined 

rain, 
Do  I  seek  an  eastern  window,  so  to  watch  the  breakers 

beat 
Round  the  steadfast  crags  of  Coogee,  dim  with  drifts  of 

driving  sleet : 
Hearing  hollow  mournful  noises  sweeping  down  a  solemn 

shore, 
WTiile  the  grim  sea-caves  are  tideless,  and  the  storm  strives 

at  their  core. 


284  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Often  when  the  floating  vapours  fill  the  silent  autumn  leas, 
Dreamy  memories  fall  like  moonlight  over  silver  sleeping 

seas, 
Youth  and  I  and  Love  together ! — other  times  and  other 

themes 
Come  to  me  unsung,  unwept  for,  through  the  faded  even- 
ing gleams :  \ 
Come  to  me  and  touch  me  mutely — I  that  looked  and 

longed  so  well, 
Shall  I  look  and  yet  forget  them  1 — who  may  know  or 

who  foretell  ? 
Though  the  southern   wind  roams,   shadowed   with   its 

immemorial  grief, 
Where  the  frosty  wings  of  winter  leave  their  whiteness 

on  the  leaf. 

Friend  of  mine  beyond  the  waters,  here  and  here  these 
perished  days 

Haunt  me  with  their  sweet  dead  faces  and  their  old 
divided  ways. 

You  that  helped  and  you  that  loved  me,  take  this  song, 
and  when  you  read 

Let  the  lost  things  come  about  you,  set  your  thoughts 
and  hear  and  heed. 

Time  has  laid  his  burden  on  us — we  who  wear  our  man- 
hood now — 

We  would  be  the  boys  we  have  been,  free  of  heart  and 
bright  of  brow — 

Be  the  boys  for  just  an  hour,  with  the  splendour  and  the 
speech 

Of  thy  lights  and  thunders,  Coogee,  flying  up  thy  gleam- 
ing beach  ! 

Heart's  desire  and  heart's  division  !  who  would  come  and 
say  to  me, 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  285 

"With  the  eyes  of  far-off  friendship,  "You  are  as  you  used 

to  be  r' 
Something  glad  and  good  has  left  me  here  ■with  sickening 

discontent, 
Tired  of  looking,  neither  knowing  what  it  was  or  where 

it  went. 
So  it  is  this  sight  of  Coogee,  shining  in  the  morning  dew, 
Sets  me  stumbling  through  dim  summers  once  on  fire 

with  youth  and  you — 
Summers  pale  as  Southern  evenings  where  the  year  has 

lost  its  power, 
And  the  wasted  face  of  April  weeps  above  the  withered 

flower. 

Not  that  seasons  bring  no  solace — not  that  time  lacks 

light  and  rest — 
But  the  old  things  were  the  dearest,  and  the  old  loves 

seem  the  best. 
We  that  start  at  songs  familiar — we  that  tremble  at  a 

tone, 
Floating  down  the  ways  of  music,  like  a  sigh  of  sweetness 

flown, 
We  can  never  feel  the  freshness — never  find  again  the 

mood 
Left   amongst    fair-featured    places    brightened   of    our 

brotherhood. 
This,  and  this,  we  have  to  think  of,  when  the  night  is 

over  all, 
And  the  woods  begin  to  perLsh,  and  the  rain   begins  to 

fall. 


286  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


ROSE  LORRAINE. 

Sweet  water-moons,  blown  into  lights 

Of  flying  gold  on  pool  and  creek, 
And  many  sounds  and  many  sights 

Of  younger  days  are  back  this  week. 
I  cannot  say  I  sought  to  face, 

Or  greatly  cared  to  cross  again 
The  subtle  spirit  of  the  place 

Whose  life  is  mixed  with  Rose  Lorraine, 

What  though  her  voice  rings  clearly  through 

A  nightly  dream  I  gladly  keep, 
1^0  wish  have  I  to  start  anew 

Heart-fountains  that  have  ceased  to  leap. 
Here,  face  to  face  with  different  days, 

And  later  things  that  plead  for  love, 
It  would  be  worse  than  wrong  to  raise 

A  phantom  far  too  fain  to  move. 

But,  Rose  Lorraine — ah  !  Rose  Lorraine, 

I'll  whisper  now,  where  no  one  hears — 
If  you  should  chance  to  meet  again 

The  man  you  kissed  in  soft,  dead  years. 
Just  say  for  once,  "  He  suffered  much," 

And  add  to  this,  "His  fate  was  worst 
Because  of  me,  my  voice,  my  touch  " — 

There  is  no  passion  like  the  first ! 

If  I,  that  breathe  your  slow  sweet  name 
As  one  breathes  low  notes  on  a  flute. 

Have  vext  your  peace  with  word  of  blame, 
The  phrase  is  dead — the  lips  are  mute. 

Yet  when  I  turn  towards  the  wall. 
In  stormy  nights,  in  times  of  rain, 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  2S7 

I  often  wish  you  coiild  recall 

Your  tender  speeches,  Rose  Lorraine. 

Because,  you  see,  I  thought  them  true, 

I  did  not  count  you  self-deceived, 
And  gave  myself  in  all  to  you, 

And  looked  on  Love  as  Life  achieved. 
Then  came  the  bitter,  sudden  change, 

The  fastened  lips,  the  dumb  despair; 
The  first  few  weeks  were  very  strange. 

And  long,  and  sad,  and  hard  to  bear. 

'No  woman  lives  with  power  to  burst 

My  passion's  bonds,  and  set  me  free  j 
For  Rose  is  last  where  Rose  was  first. 

And  only  Rose  is  fair  to  me. 
The  faintest  memory  of  her  face. 

The  wilful  face  that  hurt  me  so, 
Is  followed  by  a  fiery  trace 

That  Rose  Lorraine  must  never  know. 

I  keep  a  faded  ribbon-string 

You  used  to  wear  about  your  throat ; 
And  of  this  pale,  this  perished  thing, 

I  think  I  know  the  threads  by  rote. 
God  help  such  love !     To  touch  your  hand. 

To  loiter  where  your  feet  might  fall, 
You  marvellous  girl,  my  soul  would  stand 

The  worst  of  hell — its  fires  and  all ! 


ON  THE  PAROO. 
As  when  the  strong  stream  of  a  wintering  sea 
Rolls  round  our  coast,  with  bodeful  breaks  of  storm, 
And  swift  salt  rain,  and  bitter  wind  that  saith 
Wild  things  and  Avoeful  of  the  white  South  Land 


2S8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Alone  with  God  and  Silence  in  the  cold — 

As  when  this  cometh,  men  from  dripping  doors 

Look  forth,  and  shudder  for  the  mariners 

Abroad,  so  we  for  absent  brothers  looked 

In  days  of  drought,  and  when  the  flying  floods 

Swept  boundless :  roaring  down  the  bald,  black  plains 

Beyond  the  farthest  spur  of  western  hills. 

For  where  the  Barwan  cuts  a  rotten  land, 

Or  lies  unshaken,  like  a  great  blind  creek, 

Between  hot  mouldering  banks,  it  came  to  this, 

All  in  a  time  of  short  and  thirsty  sighs, 

That  thirty  rainless  months  had  left  the  pools 

And  grass  as  dry  as  ashes  :  then  it  was 

Our  kinsmen  started  for  the  lone  Paroo. 

From  point  to  point,  with  patient  strivings,  sheer 

Across  the  horrors  of  the  windless  downs, 

Blue  gleaming  like  a  sea  of  molten  steel 

But  never  drought  had  broke  them — never  flood 
Had  quenched  them  :  they  with  mighty  youth  and  health, 
And  thews  and  sinews  knotted  like  the  trees — 
They,  like  the  children  of  the  native  woods. 
Could  stem  the  strenuous  waters,  or  outlive 
•The  crimson  days  and  dull,  dead  nights  of  thirst 
Like  camels.     Yet  of  what  avail  was  strength 
Alone  to  them — though  it  was  like  the  rocks 
On  stormy  mountains — in  the  bloody  time 
When  fierce  sleep  caught  them  in  the  camps  at  rest, 
And  violent  darkness  gripped  the  life  in  them 
And  whelmed  them,  as  an  eagle  unawares 
Is  whelmed  and  slaughtered  in  a  sudden  snare  1 

All  murdered  by  the  blacks !  smit  while  they  lay. 
In  silver  dreams,  and  with  the  far,  faint  fall 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  2S9 

Of  many  waters  breaking  on  their  sleep  ! 

Yea,  in  the  tracts  unknown  of  any  man 

Save  savages— the  dim-discovered  ways 

Of  footless  silence  or  unhappy  winds^ 

The  wild  men  came  upon  them,  like  a  fire 

Of  desert  thunder ;  and  the  fine  firm  lips 

That  touched  a  mother's  lips  a  year  before, 

xViid  hands  that  knew  a  dearer  hand  than  life, 

Were  hewn  like  sacrifice  before  the  stars, 

And  left  with  hooting  owls,  and  blowing  clouds, 

And  falling  leaves,  and  solitary  wings  ! 

Ay,  you  may  see  their  graves — you  who  have  toiled, 

And  tripped,  and  thirsted,  like  these  men  of  ours ; 

For,  verily,  I  say  that  not  so  deep 

Their  bones  are,  that  the  scattered  drift  and  dust 

Of  gusty  days  will  never  leave  them  bare. 

O  dear,  dead,  bleaching  bones  !  I  know  of  those 

"Who  have  the  wild  strong  will  to  go  and  sit 

Outside  all  things  with  you,  and  keep  the  ways 

Aloof  from  bats,  and  snakes,  and  tramply  feet 

That  smite  your  peace  and  theirs — who  have  the  heart. 

Without  the  lusty  limbs,  to  face  the  fire. 

And  moonless  midnights,  and  to  be,  indeed, 

For  very  sorrow,  like  a  moaning  wind 

In  wintry  forests  with  perpetual  rain. 


I  because  of  this — because  of  sisters  left 

With  desperate  purpose  and  dishevelled  hair, 

And  broken  breath,  and  sweetness  quenched  in  tears — 

Because  of  swifter  silver  for  the  head. 

And  furrows  for  the  face — because  of  these, 

That  should  have  come  with  age,  that  come  with  pain, 

( )  Master  !  Father !  sitting  where  our  eyes 

Are  tired  of  looking,  say  for  once  are  we — 

T 


jgo  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Are  ive  to  set  our  lips  with  weary  smiles 
Before  the  bitterness  of  Life  and  Death, 
And  call  it  honey,  while  we  bear  away 
A  taste  like  wormwood  1 

Tarn  thyself,  and  sing- 
Sin.ff,  son  of  Sorrow  !     Is  there  any  gain 
For  breaking  of  the  loins,  for  melting  eyes,   * 
And  knees  as  weak  as  water  ? — any  peace, 
Or  hope,  for  casual  breath,  and  labouring  lips, 
For  clapping  of  the  palms,  and  sharper  sighs 
Than  frost ;  or  any  light  to  come  for  those 
Who  stand  and  mumble  in  the  alien  streets 
With  heads  as  grey  as  winter  1 — any  balm 
For  pleading  women,  and  the  love  that  knows 
Of  nothing  left  to  love  ? 

They  sleep  a  sleep 
Unknown  of  dreams,  these  darling  friends  of  ours. 
And  ive,  who  taste  the  core  of  many  tales 
Of  tribulation — we,  whose  lives  are  salt 
With  tears  indeed — we  therefore  hide  our  eyes 
And  weep  in  secret,  lest  our  grief  shouM  ris 
The  rest  that  hath  no  hurt  from  daily  racks 
Of  fiery  clouds  and  immemorial  rains. 


ISK 


BEYOND  KERGUELEN. 

Down  in  the  South,  by  the  waste  without  sail  on  it- 
Far  from  the  zone  of  the  blossom  and  tree — 

Lieth,  with  winter  and  whirlwind  and  wail  on  it, 
Ghost  of  a  land  by  the  ghost  of  a  sea. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  291 

"Weird  is  the  mist  from  the  summit  to  base  of  it 

Sun  of  its  heaven  is  wizened  and  grey ; 
Pliantom  of  light  is  the  light  on  the  face  of  it — 

Never  is  night  on  it,  never  is  day  ! 
Here  is  the  shore  without  flower  or  bird  on  it ; 

Here  is  no  litany  sweet  of  the  springs — 
Only  the  haughty,  harsh  thunder  is  heard  on  it, 

Only  the  storm,  with  a  roar  in  its  wings  ! 

Shadow  of  moon  is  the  moon  in  the  sky  of  it, — 

Wan  as  the  face  of  a  wizard,  and  far ! 
Never  there  shines  from  the  firmament  high  of  it, 

Grace  of  the  planet  or  glory  of  star. 
All  the  year  round,  in  the  place  of  white  days  on  it — ■ 

All  the  year  round  where  there  never  is  night — 
Lies  a  great  sinister,  bitter,  blind  haze  on  it : 

Growth  that  is  neither  of  darkness  nor  light ! 
"Wild  is  the  cry  of  the  sea  in  the  caves  by  it — 

Sea  that  is  smitten  by  spears  of  the  snow  ; 
Desolate  songs  are  the  songs  of  the  waves  by  it — • 

Down  in  the  South,  where  the  ships  never  go. 

Storm  from  the  Pole  is  the  singer  that  sings  to  it 

Hymns  of  the  land  at  the  Planet's  grey  verge ; 
Thunder  discloses  dark,  wonderful  things  to  it — 

Thunder,  and  rain,  and  the  dolorous  surge. 
Hills  with  no  hope  of  a  wing  or  a  leaf  on  them, 

Scarred  with  the  chronicles  written  by  flame, 
Stare  through  the  gloom  of  inscrutable  grief  on  them, 

Down  on  the  horns  of  the  gulfs  without  name ; 
Cliffs  with  the  records  of  fierce  flying  fires  on  them 

Loom  over  perilous  pits  of  eclipse ; 
Alps,  with  anathema  stamped  in  the  spires  on  them — 

Out  by  the  wave  with  a  curse  on  its  lips. 


292  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Never  is  sign  of  soft,  beautiful  green  on  it — 

Never  the  colour,  the  glory  of  rose  ! 
Neither  the  fountain  nor  river  is  seen  on  it, 

Naked  its  crags  are,  and  barren  its  snows ! 
Blue  as  the  face  of  the  drowned  is  the  shore  of  it — • 

Shore,  with  the  capes  of  indefinite  cave  ; 
Strange  is  the  voice  of  its  wind,  and  the  roar  of  it 

Startles  the  mountain  and  hushes  the  wave. 
Out  to  the  south  and  away  to  the  north  of  it, 

Spectral  and  sad  are  the  spaces  untold  ! 
All  the  year  round  a  great  cry  goeth  forth  of  it — 

Sob  of  this  leper  of  lands  in  the  cold. 

No  man  hath  stood,  all  its  bleak,  bitter  years  on  it — 

Fall  of  a  foot  on  its  wastes  is  unknown  : 
Only  the  sound  of  the  hurricane's  spears  on  it 

Breaks  with  the  shout  from  the  uttermost  zone. 
Blind  are  its  bays  with  the  shadow  of  bale  on  them ; 

Storms  of  the  nadir  their  rocks  have  uphurled ; 
Earthquake  hath  registered  deeply  its  tale  on  them — 

Tale  of  distress  from  the  dawn  of  the  world ! 
There  are  the  gaps,  with  the  surges  that  seethe  in  them — 

Gaps  in  whose  jaws  is  a  menace  that  glares  ! 
There  the  wan  reefs,  with  the  merciless  teeth  in  them. 

Gleam  on  a  chaos  that  startles  and  scares ! 

Back  in  the  dawn  of  this  beautiful  sphere,  on  it — 

Land  of  the  dolorous,  desolate  face — 
Beamed  the  blue  day ;  and  tlie  bountiful  year  on  it 

Fostered  the  leaf  and  the  blossom  of  grace. 
Grand  were  the  lights  of  its  midsummer  noon  on  it — 

Mornings  of  majesty  shone  on  its  seas : 
Glitter  of  star  and  the  glory  of  moon  on  it 

Fell,  in  the  march  of  the  musicalbreeze. 
Valleys  and  hills,  with  the  whisper  of  wing  in  them, 

Dells  of  the  daffodil — spaces  impearled. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  293 

Flowered  and  flashed  with  the  splendour  of  spring  in  them, 
Back  in  the  morn  of  this  wonderful  world. 

Soft  were  the  words  that  the  thunder  then  said  to  it — 

Said  to  this  lustre  of  emerald  plain ; 
Sun  brought  the  yellow,  the  green,  and  the  red  to  it — 

Sweet  were  the  songs  of  its  silvery  rain. 
Voices  of  water  and  wind  in  the  bays  of  it 

Lingered,  and  lulled  like  the  psalm  of  a  dream  ; 
Fair  were  the  nights  and  effulgent  the  days  of  it — • 

Moon  was  in  shadow  and  shade  in  the  beam. 
Summer's  chief  throne  was  the  marvellous  coast  of  it. 

Home  of  the  spring  was  its  luminous  lea  ! 
Garden  of  glitter !  but  only  the  ghost  of  it 

Moans  in  the  South  by  the  ghost  of  a  sea. 


HY-DRASIL. 

'"Daughter,"  said  the  ancient  father,   pausing  by  tiie 

evening  sea, 
"Turn  thy  face  towards  the  sunset — turn  thy  face  and 

kneel  with  me  ! 
Prayer  and  praise  and  holy  fasting,  lips  of  love  and  life  of 

light. 
These,  and  these,  have  made  thee  perfect — shining  saint 

with  seraph's  sight ! 
Look  towards  that  flaming  crescent — look  beyond  that 

glowing  space — 
Tell  me,  sister  of  the  angels,  what  is  beaming  in  thy  face  1 " 
And  the  daugliter  who  had  fasted — who  had  spent  her 

days  in  prayer, 
Till  the  glory  of  the  Saviour  touched  her  head  and  rested 

there — 


294  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Turned  her  eyes  towards  the  sea-line — saw  beyond  the 

fiery  crest, 
Floating  over  waves  of  jasper,  far  Hy-Brasil  in  the  West. 
All  the  calmness  and  the  colour — all  the  splendour  and 

repose 
Flowing  where  the  sunset  flowered  like  a  silver-hearted  rose  \ 
There  indeed  was  singing  Eden,  where  the  great  gold  river 

runs 
Past  the  porch  and  gates  of  crystal  ringed  by  strong  and 

shining  ones  ! 
There  indeed  w^as  God's   own   garden  sailing  down  the 

sapphire  sea — 
Lawny  dells  and  slopes  of  summer,  dazzling  stream  and 

radiant  tree  ! 
Out  against  the  hushed  horizon — out  beneath  the  reverent 

day. 
Flamed  the  wonder  on  the  waters — flamed  and  flashed, 

and  passed  away. 
And  the  maiden  who  had  seen  it  felt  a  hand  within  her  own, 
And  an  angel  that  w^e  know  not  led  her  to  the  lands 

unknown. 
Never  since  hath  eye  beheld  it — never  since  hath  mortal, 

dazed 
By  its  strange  unearthly  splendour,  on  the  floating  Eden 

gazed  ! 
Only  once  since  Eve  went  weeping  through  a  throng  of 

glittering  wings 
Ilath  the  holy  seen  Hy-Brasil,  where  the  great  gold  river 

sings  ! 
Only  once  by  quiet  waters,  under  still  resplendent  skies. 
Did  the  sister  of  the  Seraphs  kneel  in  sight  of  Paradise ! 
She,  the  pure,  the  perfect  woman,  sanctified  by  patient 

prayer, 
Ilath  the  eyes  of  saints  of  Heaven — all  their  glory  in  her 

hair; 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  295 

Therefore  GoJ  the  Father  uhispercd  to  a  radiant  spirit 

near — 
"  Show  our  daughter  fair  Hy-Erasil — show  her  this,  and 

lead  her  here." 
But  beyond  the  halls  of  sunset — but  within  the  wondrous 

West, 
On  the  rose-red  seas  of  evening,  sails  the  Garden  of  the 

Blest. 
Still  the  gates  of  glassy  beauty — still  the  walls  of  glowing 

_   light 
Shine  on  waves  that  no  man  knows  of,  out  of  sound  and 

out  of  sight. 
Yet  the  slopes  of  lawns  of  lustre — yet  the  dells  of  sparkling 

streams 
Dip   to  tranquil   sliores    of  jasper   Mhere   the    watching 

angel  beams. 
But,  behold  !  our  eyes  are  human,  and  our  way  is  paved 

with  pain, 
"We  can  never  find  Ily-Brasil — never  see  its  hills  again  ! 
2sever  look  on  bays  of  crystal — never  bend  the  reverent 

knee 
In  the  sight  of  Eden  floating — floating  on  the  sapphire  sea  ! 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WILD  OAK. 
(written   in  the  shadow  op  1872.) 

Twelve  years  ago,  when  I  could  face 

High  heaven's  dome  with  different  eyes — 
In  days  full-flowered  with  hours  of  grace, 

And  nights  not  sad  with  sighs — 
I  wrote  a  song  in  which  I  strove 

To  shadow  forth  thy  strain  of  woe, 
3 '•ark  widowed  sister  of  the  grove — 

Twelve  wasted  years  ago. 


296  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

But  3'outli  was  then  too  young  to  find 

Those  high  authentic  syllables 
Whose  voice  is  like  the  wintering  wind 

By  sunless  mountain  fells  ; 
Nor  had  I  sinned  and  suffered  then 

To  that  superlative  degree 
That  I  would  rather  seek,  than  men, 

Wild  fellowship  wdth  thee. 

But  he  who  hears  this  autumn  day 

Thy  more  than  deep  autumnal  rhyme, 
Is  one  whose  hair  was  shot  with  grey 

By  grief  instead  of  time. 
He  has  no  need,  like  many  a  bard, 

To  sing  imaginary  pain, 
Because  he  bears,  and  finds  it  hard. 

The  punishment  of  Cain. 

No  more  he  sees  the  affluence 

Which  makes  the  heart  of  Nature  gla  1  ; 
For  he  has  lost  the  fine  first  sense 

Of  beauty  that  he  had. 
The  old  delight  God's  happy  breeze 

Was  wont  to  give,  to  grief  has  grown  ; 
And  therefore,  Niobe  of  trees. 

His  song  is  like  thine  own. 

But  I,  who  am  that  perished  soul, 

Have  wasted  so  these  powers  of  mine. 
That  I  can  never  write  that  whole, 

Pure,  perfect  speech  of  thine. 
Some  lord  of  words  august,  supreme, 

The  grave,  grand  melody  demands ; 
The  dark  translation  of  thy  theme 

I  leave  to  other  hands. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  297 

Yet  here,  where  plovers  nightly  call 

Across  dim  melancholy  leas — 
"Where  comes  by  ■whistling  fen  and  fall 

The  moan  of  far-off  seas — 
A  grey  old  Fancy  often  sits 

Beneath  thy  shade  with  tired  wings, 
And  fills  thy  strong,  strange  rhyme  by  fits 

"With  awful  utteriugs. 

Then  times  there  are  when  all  the  words 

Are  like  the  sentences  of  one 
Shut  in  by  fate  from  M'ind  and  birds 

And  light  of  stars  and  sun  ! 
No  dazzling  dryad,  but  a  dark 

Dream-haunted  spirit,  doomed  to  be 
Imprisoned,  crampt  in  bauds  of  bark, 

For  all  eternity. 

Yea,  like  the  speech  of  one  aghast 

At  Immortality  in  chains. 
What  time  the  lordly  storm  rides  past 

"With  flames  and  arrowy  rains  : 
Some  wan  Tithonus  of  the  wood, 

"White  with  immeasurable  years — • 
An  awful  ghost,  in  solitude 

With  moaning  moors  and  meres  ! 

And  when  high  thunder  smites  the  hill 

And  hunts  the  wild  dog  to  his  den, 
Thy  cries,  like  maledictions,  shrill 

And  shriek  from  glen  to  glen. 
As  if  a  frightful  memory  whipped 

Thy  soul  for  some  infernal  crime 
That  left  it  blasted,  blind,  and  stript — ■ 

A  dread  to  Death  and  Time  ! 


298  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

But  when  the  fair-haired  August  dies, 

And  flowers  wax  strong  and  heautiful, 
Thy  songs  are  stately  harmonies 

By  wood-lights  green  and  cool, 
Most  like  the  voice  of  one  who  shows 

Through  suiTerings  fierce,  in  fine  relief, 
A  noble  patience  and  repose — 

A  dignity  in  grief. 

But,  ah  !  conceptions  fade  away, 

And  still  the  life  that  lives  in  thee — 
The  soul  of  thy  majestic  lay-— 

Eemains  a  mystery ! 
And  he  must  speak  the  speech  divine — 

The  language  of  the  high-throned  lords — 
Who'd  give  that  grand  old  theme  of  thine 

Its  sense  in  faultless  words. 

By  hollow  lands  and  sea-tracts  harsh. 

With  ruin  of  the  fourfold  gale, 
Where  sighs  the  sedge  and  sobs  the  marsh, 

Still  wail  thy  lonely  wail ; 
And,  year  by  year,  one  step  will  break 

The  sleep  of  far  hill-folded  streams, 
And  seek,  if  only  for  thy  sake, 

Thy  home  of  many  dreams. 


NARRARA  CREEK. 

(WRITTEN   IN   THE   SHADOW   OF    1 872.) 

From  the  rainy  hill-heads  where,  in  starts  and  in  spasms, 
Leaps  wild  the  white  torrent  from  chasms  to  chasms — 
From  the  home  of  bold  echoes,  whose  voices  of  wonder 
Fly  out  of  blind  caverns,  struck  black  by  high  thunder — • 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  299 

Through  gorges  august  in  whose  nether  recesses 
Is  heard  the  far  psalm  of  unseen  wildernesses — 
Like  a  dominant  spirit,  a  strong-handed  sharer 
Of  spoil  with  the  tempest,  comes  down  the  Narrara. 


Yea,  where  the  great  sword  of  the  hurricane  cleaveth 
The  forested  fells  that  the  dark  never  leaveth — 
By  fierce-featured  crags  in  whose  evil  abysses 
The  clammy  snake  coils  and  the  fat  adder  hisses — 
Past  lordly  rock-temples,  Avhere  silence  is  riven 
By  the  anthems  supreme  of  the  four  winds  of  heaven — 
It  speeds  with  the  cry  of  the  streams  of  the  fountains 
It  chained  to  its  sides  and  dragged  down  from  the  moun- 
tains ! 

But  when  it  goes  forth  from  the  slopes  with  a  sally — 
Being  strengthened  with  tribute  from  many  a  valley, — 
It  broadens,  and  brightens,  and  thereupon  marches 
Above  the  stream-sapphires  and  under  green  arches 
AVith  the  rhythm  of  majesty — careless  of  cumber — 
Its  might  in  repose,  and  its  fierceness  in  slumber, — 
Till    it    beams    on    the    plains    where    the    wind    is    a 

bearer 
Of  words  from  the  sea  to  the  stately  Narrara ! 

Narrara  !  grand  son  of  the  haughty  hill-torrent ! 

Too  late  in  my  day  have  I  looked  at  thy  current — 

Too  late  in  my  life  to  discern  and  inherit 

The  soul  of  thy  beauty — the  joy  of  thy  spirit ! 

"With   the   years   of   the   youth   and.   the   hairs   of    the 

hoary, 
I  sit  like  a  shadow  outside  of  thy  gloiy  ; 
Nor  look  with  the  morning-like  feelings,  0  River, 
That  illumined  the  boy  in  the  days  gone  for  ever. 


300  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Ah  !  sad  are  tlie  sounds  of  old  ballads  which  borrow 
One-half  of  their  grief  from  the  listener's  sorrow ; 
And  sad  are  the  eyes  of  the  pilgrim  who  traces 
The  ruins  of  Time  in  revisited  places ; 
But  sadder  than  all  is  the  sense  of  his  losses 
That  Cometh  to  one  when  a  sudden  age  crosses, 
And  cripples  his  manhood.     So  stricken  by  fate,  I 
Felt  older  at  thirty  than  some  do  at  eighty. 

Because  I  believe  in  the  beautiful  story — 
The  Poem  of  Greece  in  the  days  of  her  glory — 
That  the  high-seated  Lord  of  the  woods  and  the  waters 
Has  peopled  Plis  World  with  his  deified  daughters — 
That  flowerful  forests  and  waterways  streaming, 
Are  gracious  with  goddesses  glowing  and  gleaming — 
I  pray  that  thy  singing  divinity,  fairer 
Than  wonderful  women,  may  listen,  Narrara ! 

O  spirit  of  sea-going  currents — thou  being 
The  child  of  immortals  ali-knowing,  all-seeing — 
Thou  hast  at  thy  heart  the  dark  truth  that  I  borrow 
For  the  song  that  I  sing  thee,  no  fanciful  sorrow ; 
In  the  sight  of  thine  eyes  is  the  history  written 
Of  Love  smitten  down  as  the  strong  leaf  is  smitten  ; 
And  before  thee  there  goeth  a  phantom  beseeching 
For  faculties  forfeited — hopes  beyond  reaching  ! 


Thou  knowest,  0  sister  of  deities  blazing 
With  splendour  ineffable — beauty  amazing, 
What  life  the  gods  gave  me — what  largess  I  tasted, 
The  youth  throAvn  away  and  the  faculties  wasted ! 
I  might,  as  thou  seest,  have  stood  in  high  places 
Instead  of  in  pits  where  the  brand  of  disgrace  is — 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  301 

A  by-word  for  scoffers — a  butt,  and  a  caution, 

AVith  the  grave  of  poor  Burns  and  Maginn  for  my  portion. 


But  the  lieart  of  the  Father  Supreme  is  offended, 
And  my  life  in  the  light  of  His  favour  is  ended : 
And  whipped  by  inflexible  devils,  I  shiver, 
With  a  hollow  "  Too  late  ! "  in  my  hearing  for  ever ; 
But  thou,  being  sinless,  exalted,  supernal. 
The  daughter  of  diademed  gods — the  eternal, 
Shall  shine  in  thy  waters  Avhen  Time  and  Existence 
Have  dwindled  like  stars  in  unspeakable  distance  ! 

But  the  face  of  thy  river — the  torrented  power 

That  smites  at  the  rock  while  it  fosters  the  flower — 

Shall  gleam  in  my  dreams  with  the  summer-look  splendid. 

And  the  beauty  of  woodlands  and  waterfalls  blended : 

And  often  I'll  think  of  far  forested  noises, 

And  the  emphasis  deep,  of  grand  sea-going  voices ; 

And  turn  to  Narrara  the  eyes  of  a  lover 

When  the  sorrowful  days  of  my  singing  are  over. 


PERSIA. 


I  AM  writing  this  song  at  the  close 

Of  a  beautiful  day  of  the  spring, 
In  a  dell  where  the  daffodil  grows, 

By  a  grove  of  the  glimmering  wing ; 
From  glades  where  a  musical  word 

Comes  ever  from  luminous  fall, 
I  send  you  the  song  of  a  bird 

Tliat  I  wish  to  be  dear  to  you  all. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I  have  given  my  darling  the  name 

Of  a  land  at  the  gates  of  the  day, 
Where  morning  is  always  the  same, 

And  spring  never  passes  away ; 
"With  a  prayer  for  a  lifetime  of  light, 

I  christened  her  Persia,  you  see  ; 
And  I  hope  that  some  fathers  to-night 

"Will  kneel  in  the  spirit  with  me. 

She  is  only  commencing  to  look 

At  the  beauty  in  which  she  is  set; 
And  forest,  and  flower,  and  brook 

To  her  are  all  mysteries  yet. 
I  know  that  to  many  my  words 

"Will  seem  insignificant  things  ; 
But  you  Avho  are  mothers  of  birds 

"Will  feel  for  the  father  who  sings  ; 

For  all  of  you  doubtless  have  been 

"Where  sorrows  are  manj^  and  wild  ; 
And  you  know  what  a  beautiful  scene 

Of  this  world  can  be  made  by  a  child. 
I  am  sure,  if  they  listen  to  this, 

Sweet  women  will  quiver,  and  long 
To  tenderly  stoop  to  and  kiss 

The  Persia  Pve  put  in  a  song. 

And  I'm  certain  the  critic  will  pause, 

And  excuse,  for  the  sake  of  my  bird. 
My  sins  against  critical  laws — 

The  slips  in  the  thought  and  the  word. 
And,  haply,  some  dear  little  face 

Of  his  own  to  his  mind  will  occur — 
Some  Persia  who  brightens  his  place — 

And  I'll  be  forgiven  for  her. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  303 

A  life  that  is  turning  to  grey 

Has  hardly  been  happy,  you  see ; 
Jjut  the  rose  that  has  dropped  on  my  way, 

Is  morning  and  music  to  me. 
Yea,  she  that  I  hold  by  the  hand 

Is  changing  white  winter  to  green, 
And  making  a  light  of  the  land — 

All  fathers  will  know  what  I  mean  ! 

All  women  and  men  who  have  known 

The  sickness  of  sorrow  and  sin 
Will  feel — having  babes  of  their  own — 

My  verse  and  the  pathos  therein. 
For  that  must  be  touching  which  shows 

How  a  life  has  been  led  from  the  wild 
To  a  garden  of  glitter  and  rose 

By  the  flower-like  hand  of  a  child. 

She  is  strange  to  this  wonderful  sphere ; 

One  summer  and  winter  have  set 
Since  God  left  her  radiance  here — 

Her  sweet  second  year  is  not  yet. 
The  world  is  so  lovely  and  new 

To  eyes  full  of  eloquent  light, 
And,  sisters,  I'm  lioping  that  you 

Will  pray  for  my  Persia  to-night. 

For  I,  who  have  suffered  so  much. 

And  know  what  the  bitterness  is, 
Am  sad  to  think  sorrow  must  touch, 

Some  day,  even  darlings  like  this ! 
But  sorrow  is  part  of  tliis  life, 

And,  therefore,  a  father  doth  long 
For  the  blessing  of  mother  and  wife 

On  the  bird  lie  has  put  in  a  son". 


304  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

THE  AUSTRAL  MONTHS. 

January. 

The  first  fair  month  !     In  singing  Summer's  sphere 
She  glows,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  year. 
All  light,  all  warmth,  all  passion,  breaths  of  myrrh, 
And  subtle  hints  of  rose-lands,  come  with  her. 
She  is  the  warm,  live  month  of  lustre — she 
Makes  glad  the  land  and  lulls  the  strong  sad  sea. 
The  highest  hope  comes  with  her.     In  her  face 
Of  pure,  clear  colour  lives  exalted  grace  ; 
Her  speech  is  beauty,  and  her  radiant  eyes 
Are  eloquent  with  splendid  prophecies  ! 

February, 

The  bright-haired,  blue-eyed  last  of  Summer  !      Lo  ! 

Her  clear  song  lives  in  all  the  winds  that  blow ; 

The  upland  torrent  and  the  lowland  rill, 

The  stream  of  valley  and  the  spring  of  hill. 

The  pools  that  slumber  and  the  brooks  that  run 

Where  dense  the  leaves  are,  green  the  light  of  sun. 

Take  all  her  grace  of  voice  and  colour.      She, 

With  rich  warm  vine-blood  splashed  from  heel  to  knee, 

Comes  radiant  through  the  yellow  woodlands.     Far 

And  near  her  sweet  gifts  shine  like  star  by  star. 

She  is  the  true  Demeter,     Life  of  root. 

Glows  under  her  in  gardens  flushed  with  fruit ; 

She  fills  the  fields  with  strength  and  passion — makes 

A  fire  of  lustre  of  the  lawn-ringed  lakes ; 

Her  beauty  awes  the  great  wild  sea ;  the  height 

Of  grey  magnificence  takes  strange  delight 

And  softens  at  her  presence,  at  the  dear 

Sweet  face  whose  memory  beams  through  all  the  year. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL  305 

March. 

Clear  upland  voices,  full  of  wind  and  stream, 

Greet  March,  the  sister  of  the  flying  beam 

And  speedy  shadow.     She,  with  rainbow  crowned. 

Lives  in  a  sphere  of  songs  of  many  sound. 

The  hymn  of  waters  and  the  gale's  high  tone, 

With  anthems  from  the  thunder's  mountain  throne, 

Are  with  her  ever.     This,  behold,  is  she 

Who  draws  its  great  cry  from  the  strong  sad  sea; 

She  is  the  month  of  majesty.     Her  force 

Is  power  that  moves  along  a  stately  course, 

Within  the  lines  of  order,  like  no  wild 

And  lawless  strength  of  winter's  fiercest  child. 

About  her  are  the  wind-whipped  torrents  ;  far 

Above  her  gleams  and  flies  the  stormy  star, 

And  round  her,  through  the  highlands  and  their  rocks, 

Kings  loud  the  grand  speech  from  the  equinox. 

April. 

The  darling  of  Australia's  Autumn — Now 

Down  dewy  dells  the  strong  swift  torrents  flow ! 

This  is  the  month  of  singing  waters — here 

A  tender  radiance  fills  the  Southern  year ; 

No  bitter  Winter  sets  on  herb  and  root, 

Within  these  gracious  glades,  a  frosty  foot ; 

The  spears  of  sleet,  the  arrows  of  the  hail, 

Are  here  imknown.     But  down  the  dark  green  dale 

Of  moss  and  myrtle,  and  the  herby  streams, 

This  April  wanders  in  a  home  of  dreams ; 

Her  flower-soft  name  makes  language  falter.     All 

Her  paths  arc  soft  and  cool,  and  runnels  fall 

In  music  round  her ;  and  the  woodlands  sing, 

For  evermore,  with  voice  of  wind  and  wing, 

U 


3o6  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POETS. 

Because  this  is  tlie  month  of  beauty — this 
The  crowning  grace  of  all  the  grace  that  is. 

May. 

Now  sings  a  cool,  bland  wind,  where  falls  and  flows 
The  runnel  by  the  grave  of  last  year's  rose ; 
Now,  underneath  the  strong  perennial  leaves, 
The  first  slow  voice  of  wintering  torrent  grieves. 
Now  in  a  light,  like  English  August's  day, 
Is  seen  the  fair,  sweet,  chastened  face  of  May ; 
She  is  the  daughter  of  the  year  who  stands 
With  Autumn's  last  rich  offerings  in  her  hands ; 
Behind  her  gleams  the  ghost  of  April's  noon. 
Before  her  is  the  far,  faint  dawn  of  June ; 
She  lingers  where  the  dells  and  dewy  leas 
Catch  stormy  sayings  from  the  great  bold  seas  ; 
Her  nightly  raiment  is  the  misty  fold 
That  zones  her  round  with  moonlight-coloured  gold  ; 
And  in  the  day  she  sheds,  from  shining  wings, 
A  tender  heat  that  keeps  the  life  in  things. 

June. 

Not  like  that  month  when,  in  imperial  space, 

The  high,  strong  sun  stares  at  the  white  world's  face ; 

Not  like  that  haughty  daughter  of  the  year 

Who  moves,  a  splendour,  in  a  splendid  sphere ; 

But  rather  like  a  nymph  of  afternoon. 

With  cool,  soft  sunshine,  comes  Australian  June  : 

She  is  the  calm,  sweet  lady,  from  whose  lips 

No  breath  of  living  passion  ever  slips ; 

The  wind  that  on  her  virgin  forehead  blows 

Was  born  too  late  to  speak  of  last  year's  rose ; 

She  never  saw  a  blossom,  but  her  eyes 

Of  tender  beauty  see  blue,  gracious  skies ; 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  307 

She  loves  the  mosses,  and  her  feet  have  been 
In  woodlands  where  the  leaves  are  always  green ; 
Her  days  pass  on  with  sea-songs,  and  her  nights 
Shine,  full  of  stars,  on  lands  of  frosty  lights. 

July. 

High  travelling  winds,  filled  with  the  strong  storm's  soul, 

Are  here,  with  dark,  strange  sayings  from  the  Pole  ; 

Now  is  the  time  when  every  great  cave  rings 

With  sharp,  clear  echoes  caught  from  mountain  springs  ; 

This  is  the  season  when  all  torrents  run 

Beneath  no  bright,  glad  beauty  of  the  sun. 

Here,  where  the  trace  of  last  year's  green  is  lost, 

Are  haughty  gales,  and  lordships  of  the  frost ; 

Far  down,  by  fields  forlorn,  and  forelands  bleak 

Are  wings  that  fly  not,  birds  that  never  speak ; 

But  in  the  deep  hearts  of  the  glens,  unseen, 

Stand  grave,  mute  forests  of  eternal  green ; 

And  here  the  lady,  born  in  wind  and  rain, 

Comes  oft  to  moan  and  clap  her  palms  with  pain ; 

This  is  our  wild-faced  July,  in  whose  breast 

Is  never  faultless  light  or  perfect  rest. 

August. 

Across  the  range,  by  every  scarred  black  fell, 

Strong  Winter  blows  his  horn  of  wild  farewell ; 

And  in  the  glens,  where  yet  there  moves  no  wing, 

A  slow,  sweet  voice  is  singing  of  the  Spring. 

Yea,  Avhere  the  bright,  quick  woodland  torrents  run, 

A  music  trembles  under  rain  and  sun. 

The  lips  that  breathe  it  are  the  lips  of  her 

At  whose  dear  touch  the  wan  world's  pulses  stir — ■ 

The  nymph  who  sets  the  bow  of  promise  high. 

And  fills  with  warm  life-light  the  bleak  grey  sky, 


3o8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

She  is  the  fair-haired  August.     Ere  she  leaves 
She  brings  the  woodbine  blossom  round  the  eaves ; 
And  where  the  bitter  barbs  of  frost  have  been 
She  makes  a  beauty  with  her  gold  and  green ; 
And,  while  a  sea-song  floats  from  bay  and  beach, 
She  sheds  a  mist  of  blossoms  on  the  peach.* 

October. 

Where  fountains  sing  and  many  waters  meet 

October  comes  with  blossom-trammelled  feet ; 

She  slieds  green  glory  by  the  wayside  rills, 

And  clothes  with  grace  the  haughty  featured  hills. 

This  is  the  queen  of  all  the  year.     She  brings 

The  pure  chief  beauty  of  our  Southern  Springs. 

Fair  lady  of  the  yellow  hair  !     Her  breath 

Starts  flowers  to  life,  and  shames  the  storm  to  death ; 

Through  tender  nights  and  days  of  generous  sun 

By  prospering  woods  her  clear  strong  torrents  run ; 

In  far  deep  forests,  where  all  life  is  mute, 

Of  leaf  and  bough  she  makes  a  touching  lute. 

Her  life  is  lovely.     Stream,  and  wind,  and  bird 

Have  seen  her  face — her  marvellous  voice  have  heard  ; 

And,  in  strange  tracts  of  wild- wood,  all  day  long 

They  tell  the  story  in  surpassing  song. 

November. 

Now  beats  the  first  Avarm  pulse  of  Summer — now 

There  shines  great  glory  on  the  mountain's  brow. 

The  face  of  heaven  in  the  western  sky, 

When  falls  the  sun,  ifs  filled  with  Deity  ! 

And  while  the  first  light  floods  the  lake  and  lea, 

The  morning  makes  a  marvel  of  the  sea ; 

*  "September  in  Australia"  is  published  in  Australian  Bulhids 
and  Rhymes,  in  the  "Canterbury  Poets  "  series. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL.  309 

The  strong  leaves  sing;  and  in  the  deep  green  zones 

Of  rock-bound  glens  the  streams  have  many  tones ; 

And  where  the  evening-coloured  waters  pass 

liow  glides  November  down  fair  falls  of  grass. 

She  is  the  wonder  with  the  golden  wings 

Who  lays  one  hand  in  Summer's — one  in  Spring's  ; 

About  her  hair  a  sunset  radiance  glows  ; 

Her  mouth  is  sister  of  the  dewy  rose  ; 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  pure  blue  skies 

Has  lent  its  lustre  to  her  soft  bright  eyes. 

December. 

The  month  whose  face  is  holiness !     She  brings 

AVith  her  the  glory  of  majestic  things. 

What  words  of  light — what  high  resplendent  phrase 

Have  I  for  all  the  lustre  of  her  days  ? 

She  comes,  and  carries  in  her  shining  sphere 

August  traditions  of  the  world's  great  year ; 

The  noble  tale  which  lifts  the  human  race 

Has  made  a  morning  of  her  sacred  face. 

Now  in  the  emerald  home  of  flower  and  wing 

Clear  summer  streams  their  sweet  hosannas  sing  ; 

The  winds  are  full  of  anthems,  and  a  lute 

Speaks  in  the  listening  hills  when  night  is  mute  ; 

And  through  dim  tracts  where  talks  the  royal  tree 

There  floats  a  grand  hymn  from  the  mighty  sea  ; 

And  where  the  grey,  grave,  pondering  mountains  stand 

High  music  lives — the  place  is  holy  land  ! 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


MAEGAEET  W.  KITSON. 

[Is  a  State-school  teacher  at  Winton  North,  near  Glenrowan, 
Victoria.] 

HOMEWARDS. 

Fair  Lima  lifts  her  lovely  face  above  the  eastern  hills, 
While  through  the  miles  of  airy  space  the  mopoke's  wel- 
come thrills, 

And  o'er  the  amber  western  sky 

The  star  of  evening  blazes  high. 

And  swiftly  on  from  hill   to  sea  frolics    the  wandering 

breeze. 
With  leap  and  bound  and  gambol  free,  among  the  leafy 
trees  ; 

Lift  up  your  head  and  feel  him  now, 
Lay  his  light  fingers  on  your  brow. 

Long  shadows  on  the  dewy  grass,  all  pointing  to  the  west. 
Checker  our  pathway  as  we  pass  home  to  our  quiet  nest ; 

I  watch  your  eyes  by  Venus'  light ; 

Sweet  eyes  !     Love's  reflex  makes  them  bright. 

The  mopoke  with  his  rapturous  lay  yet  fills  the  fragrant 

air, 
And  Venus  lights  our  homeward  way  through  shadowy 
woodlands  fair. 

Ah  !  fear  not  life's  declining  day, 

Though  westward  bound.  Love  lights  the  way. 


JANE  DB  WINTON  KNOX.  311 


JANE  DE  WINTON  KNOX. 

IN  JEST. 

I  CLASPED  her  little  hand  in  jest, 
I  spoke  the  tender  words  in  play ; 
I  did  not  mean  to  steal  her  heart, 
Her  truthful,  loving  heart  away. 
I  did  not  love — but  only  meant 
To  kill  the  weary  weeks — to  flirt. 
I  thought  she  understood  it  all ; 
I  did  not  mean  to  wound  or  hurt. 

And  now  the  merry  voice  is  hushed, 
The  tender,  pure,  true  heart  at  rest, 
For  ever  veiled  the  violet  eyes 
And  cold  the  hands  I  clasped — in  jest, 
I  did  not  mean — What  need,  alas  ! 
To  say  those  words  t — 'tis  all  too  late. 
They  will  not  bring  the  dead  past  back, 
Nor  join  the  severed  threads  of  fate. 

They  will  not  call  the  red  warm  life 
Into  her  marble  cheek  and  brow. 
Nor  glad  with  sunshine  those  sad  hearts 
That  loved  her,  and  are  lonely  now. 
The  dead  are  dead,  the  past  is  past — 
And  anguish  and  regret  are  vain ; 
For  ever  throi;gh  the  world  I  roam, 
An  outcast  with  the  brand  of  Cain, 


312  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


"  UNBLESSED." 

You'll  say  good-bye  to  me,  that  one  cold  word, 
For  we  sliall  never,  never  meet  again ; 
I  must  no  more  gaze  on  your  sweet  fair  face, 
That  were  for  me  too  great,  too  keen  a  pain. 
A  year  ago  I  hoped  to  call  you  "  wife," 
I  dreamt  of  bliss  that  might  not  ever  be ; 
And  yet  I  dared  not  ask  you  for  your  love — 
It  was  a  blessing  far  too  great  for  me. 

You  would  have  been  my  wife  if  I  had  asked  ; 
You  thought  you  loved  me  then.    Ah  !  yes,  I  know, 
You  pitied  me,  and  called  your  pity  "  love," 
Thank  God  I  never  spoke  !     'Tis  better  so. 
But  do  not  weep,  dear  child  ;  you  did  no  wrong  ; 
I  could  but  hope  to  worship  from  afar ; 
Por  what  was  I  that  I  should  dare  to  love, 
And  dream  to  win  a  bright — the  brightest  star  1 

'Tis  winter  now,  and  when  the  spring-time  comes, 

In  all  the  gladness  of  its  waking  life, 

You  will  have  left  the  dear  Australian  home — 

Ah  me  !  have  left  it  as  a  happy  wife. 

Last  night  I  lingered  on  the  theatre  steps. 

To  take,  in  one  brief  look,  my  last  farewell ; 

0  child  !  what  dead  hours  rose  as  you  swept  by 
With  the  glad  wooer,  who  had  wooed  so  well ! 

The  gaslight  lit  your  glorious  face,  and  shone 
In  the  dark  eyes  that  iipward  smiled  on  him, 
As  he  bent  down  to  hear  your  soft,  low  voice, — 

1  turned  away ;  my  eyes  with  tears  were  dim. 


JAKE  DE  WINTON  KNOX.  313 

What  if  his  love  was  more  to  j'ou  than  mine  ! 
I  could  not  look  on  him  and  burn  with  hate ; 
I  knew  that  he  was  worthier  far  than  I, 
And  yet,  perhaps,  I  cursed  my  cruel  fate. 

'Twas  hard  to  see  the  gem  I  longed  so  for 
"Worn  with  such  grace  upon  another  brow  ; 
To  know  that  he  had  won  it  with  a  word, 
And  all  my  service  was  as  nothing  now ; 
I  turned  aside,  how  bitterly  God  knows  ! 
And  went  my  way  amid  the  noisy  throng  ; 
And  in  the  crowd  the  vision  still  would  rise 
Of  your  sweet  face,  and  his  so  proud  and  strong. 

And  then  there  came  a  wild,  a  mad  desire, 

To  tell  the  love  I  never  dared  before. 

I  know  'tis  vain — it  always  was,  but  yet 

I  love  you,  and  shall  love  you  evermore. 

So  we  must  part  !     Then  let  me  take  your  hand  ; 

'Tis  the  last  time  that  it  in  mine  may  lie  ! 

Only  a  hand-clasp  and  a  word  I  ask — 

That  word  so  sad  and  cold  at  best — "Good-bye." 


UNQUIET. 

"Why  did  they  bury  me  hero, 

'Mid  the  shells  and  weeds  of  the  deep  ? 
Why  not  in  the  quiet  earth. 

Where  I  could  peacefully  sleep  1 

The  ever-unwearying  waves 

Beat,  beat,  beat  against  my  breast ; 

Tliere  is  no  peace  for  the  M'icked, 
Saith  the  Lord,  no  re?^.,  no  rest. 


314  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Surely  there  is  rest  for  the  weary 
In  the  dark,  lonely  grave, 

But  none  in  the  bed  of  the  ocean, 
Tossed  by  the  moaning  wave. 

Be  still,  0  !  be  still,  thou  sad  sea, 
Ye  waves  your  murmuring  cease  ; 

Let  my  tired  spirit  rest  awhile, 
A  little  while  in  peace. 


EEV.  JOHN  DUNMOEE  LANG,  D.D. 

[Bom  at  Greenock,  Scotland,  1799.  A  great  factor  in  the  early 
history  of  New  South  Wales,  to  which  colony  he  came  in 
1823.  The  greatest  Scottish  Australian  public  man,  not  only 
in  the  annals  of  New  South  Wales,  but  of  Victoria,  as  he  may 
be  looked  on  as  the  leader  in  the  great  movement  that  led  to 
the  separation  of  Port  Phillip  (now  Victoria)  from  the  mother- 
colony.  Died  in  Sydney,  August  8,  1 878,  and  accorded  the 
honours  of  a  public  funeral.] 

THE  CORAL  INSECT. 

Far  in  the  deep  sea's  vast  abyss, 

Where  Ocean's  gloomy  bed 
Is  to  the  seaman  fathomless 

Even  with  the  deep-sea  lead, 
The  Coral  insect  rears  an  isle 
"Where  man  may  live  and  summer  smile. 

Unseen  he  plies  his  hidden  toil 

For  many  a  long  long  year ; 
While  overhead  fierce  billows  boil 

And  gallant  fleets  career. 
At  length  the  islet  greets  the  day, 
Rising  amid  the  foaming  spray. 


REV.  JOHN  DUNMORB  LANG,  D.D.         315 


THE  HEADS  OF  PORT  JACKSON. 

Lo  !  yonder  looms  the  land  !     High  o'er  the  deep 

Its  barrier-rocks  stretch  their  embattled  line, 
Marshalling  their  front  'gainst  the  resistless  sweep 

Of  the  big  ocean-wave  !     Australia,  thine 
Are  adamantine  walls  ;  along  thy  steep 

And  rugged  clifl's  rages  the  ocean-brine, 
Wliile  ever  and  anon  the  foaming  spray 

Rises  heavenward  and  clouds  the  face  of  day. 

High  on  the  bold  South  Head  thy  Pharos  stands, 

Shedding  its  gladsome  ray  across  the  sea. 
When  the  cold  south  wind  whistles,  and  all  hands 

Are  weary  of  their  voyage.     How  sweet  to  me 
Its  midnight  beam  !     In  Afric's  desert  lands 

The  traveller  finds  a  friend  in  each  green  tree : 
So  doth  the  sailor  from  far  lands  returning 

"When  'mid  the  ^doom  he  sees  some  beacon  buruin; 


SONNET. 

0,  I  could  gaze  the  live-long  summer  day 
On  such  a  scene  as  fills  the  raptured  eye 
In  this  fair  haven !     IMountains  that  reach  the  sky 

Rise  on  the  right  and  left,  shadoAving  the  bay 

With  their  huge  forms,  and  diademed  with  grey 
And  castellated  rocks,  whose  hues  may  vie 
With  the  dark  tints  0'  the  sombre  drapery 

That  waves  i'  the  wind  adowu  their  sides  for  aye. 


3i6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Yet  all  is  wild  and  waste,  save  where  the  hand 
Of  man,  with  long-continued  toil  and  care, 

Has  won  a  little  spot  of  blooming  land 

From  the  vast  cheerless  forest,  here  and  there  ! 

So  is  the  moral  world — a  desert  drear, 

Where  but  a  few  green  spots  amid  the  waste  appear ! 


SONNET. 

Fearful  I  stood  on  the  moss-covered  rock 
^^^lose  rugged  cliffs  adorn  our  beauteous  bay  : 

The  forest  blazed  around,  volumes  of  smoke 
To'wering  to  heaven  obscured  the  face  of  day ; 
And  as  the  red  sun  shot  his  parting  ray 

Through  the  dense  atmosphere,  the  lurid  sky 
Glowed  with  a  fiercer  flame — spreading  dismay, 

As  if  the  dreadful  day  of  doom  were  nigh  ! 

Alas  !  where  shall  the  fear-struck  sinner  flee 
From  that  great  day's  all-devastating  blaze, 
When  the  earth  burns,  the  hills  melt  to  their  base, 

And  with  intensest  heat  boils  the  deep  sea  ! 
O  then  to  stand  upon  the  Rock  of  Ages, 
While  all  around  the  conflagration  racjes ! 


AUSTRALIAN  HYMN. 

Father  of  all !  a  youthful  race. 
Unknown  to  fortune  and  to  fame, 

Presumes  to  celebrate  Thy  praise, 
And  sing  the  glories  of  Thy  name. 

Australia's  sons  would  mingle  theirs 

With  Britain's  vows  and  Britain's  prayers. 


REV.  JOHN  DUN  MORE  LANG,  D.D.  317 

Supreme  in  wisdom  as  in  power, 
Thy  throne,  0  God,  for  ever  stands  ! 

Thy  righteous  sceptre  stretches  o'er 
The  Northern  and  the  Southern  lands 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  pole  to  pole. 

Thou  rulest  the  harmonious  whole. 

Our  sea-girt  Isle  Thy  presence  shares, 

And  thine  Omnipotence  displays  : 
Known  unto  Thee  from  endless  years 

"Were  all  its  mountains,  rivers,  bays ; 
Its  every  shrub,  its  every  tree. 
Was  planted,  mighty  God,  by  Thee  ! 

Fair  on  Creation's  splendid  page 

Thy  pencil  sketched  its  wondrous  plan, 

Thine  hand  adorned  it,  many  an  age 
Ere  it  was  known  or  trod  by  man — • 

When  nought  but  Ocean's  ceaseless  roar 

Was  heard  along  its  voiceless  shore. 

At  length  an  occupant  was  given 

To  traverse  each  untrodden  wild, 
The  rudest  mortal  under  Heaven, 

Stern  Nature's  long-forgotten  child  ! 
Compatriot  of  the  tall  emu. 
The  wombat  and  the  kangaroo  ! 

Long  did  the  savage  tenant  stray 

Across  his  forest-clad  domain  ; 
And  every  mountain,  river,  bay. 

Confessed  his  undisputed  reign  ; 
While  his  rude  net  and  ruder  spear 
Supplied  him  with  precarious  cheer. 


3i8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

But  still  no  grateful  song  of  praise 
Was  heard  along  Australia's  shore  ; 

Her  mountains,  rivers,  lakes,  and  bays 
Saw  no  fond  worshipper  adore. 

His  devious  path  the  savage  trod. 

But  still  he  knew  not,  feared  not  God. 

God  of  our  Isle  !  a  happier  race 

Far  o'er  the  wave  Thine  hand  has  brought, 
And  planted  in  the  heathen's  place 

To  serve  Thee  in  the  heathen's  lot ; 
Grant,  then,  that  we  may  all  fulfil 
Thy  bright  designs — Thy  heavenly  will  1 

Chief  over  all  Thy  works  below 
Thine  eye  regards  the  sons  of  men, 

Fixing  their  lot  where'er  they  go 

And  mingling  pleasure  with  their  pain. 

In  mercy,  then,  good  Lord,  command, 

Thy  blessing  on  our  Southern  land ! 

If  the  rude  savage  knew  not  Thee, 
Nor  felt  devotion's  holy  flame. 

Though  every  rock  and  every  tree 
Proclaimed  the  glories  of  Thy  name, 

0  grant  that  in  our  Southern  skies. 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  may  rise 

And  let  his  bright  effulgence  chase 
The  shadows  of  the  night  away, 

That  Australasia's  sable  race 

May  hail  the  dawn  of  Gospel  day, 

And  joined,  with  Britain's  sons,  record     ■ 

The  triumphs  of  their  Heavenly  Lord. 


CAROLINE  LEAKEY.  319 

So  shall  Australia's  deepest  bays, 

And  grassy  vales,  and  mountains  blue, 

Resound  witli  the  sweet  song  of  praise 
From  ransomed  men  of  every  hue ; 

While  Polynesia's  Isles  around 

Re-echo  with  the  joyful  sound  ! 


CAROLINE  LEAKEY. 

[This  well-known  Tasmanian  poetess  published  a  volume  entitled 
Li/7-a  Aiistnilis ;  or,  Attempts  to  Sing  in  a  Strange  Land 
(London  :  Bickers  &  Bush,  1854).] 

FINIS, 

My  little  lamp,  farewell ! 
My  nights  have  passed  away 
Like  a  quiet  day, 
And  thou  their  gentle  sun. 

FareweU  to  midnight  hourt:. 
Pleasant  through  all  their  pain  ; 
In  gladness  I  have  lain 
Watching  thy  tiny  ray. 

Farewell,  thy  kindly  aid  ! 
AVith  thee  must  go  alonir 
My  time  of  secret  song 
And  tuneful  solitude. 

Farewell !  I'll  not  forget 
What  once  thou  wert  to  me  ; 


320  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Now  thou  no  more  may'st  be 
Companion  of  my  song. 

Farewell !  thy  friendly  ray 
Shall  linger  round  my  heart ; 
And  oft  a  fond  thought  start 
Of  scenes  together  shared. 

Farewell !  my  joy  in  grief  ; 
Thy  light  shall  ever  be 
A  voice  to  tell  to  me — 
"  No  pang  without  relief. 

Farewell,  my  little  lamp  ! 
I  wake  this  parting  strain 
To  hours  of  pleasant  pain, 
And  thee,  their  gentle  sun  ! 


THE  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

IIo !  a  sail  in  sight — there's  a  ship  in  sight. 

And  she  is  homeward  bound  ; 
With  a  fairy  breeze,  from  the  Southern  seas, 

She  seeketh  English  ground. 

There's  a  ship  in  sight, — on  her  wings  of  light, 

She  skims  the  ocean's  face  ; 
She  leaves  us  behind,  like  the  forest  hind 

That  mocks  the  huntsman's  chase. 

She  is  scarce  in  sight,  we  have  tracked  her  flight,- 

She  fadeth  quick  from  view ; 
She's  a  speck  of  light  in  the  sunshine  bright, 

On  the  far  horizon's  blue. 


CAROLINE  LEAKEY. 

She  is  out  of  slight,  we  have  lost  her  quite, - 

She  seeketh  English  ground  ; 
"With  many  a  prayer  we'll  follow  her  there, 

For  she  is  homeward  bound ! 


THE  FIRST  OF  MAY. 

Scarce  had  the  dewy  lip?  of  morn 

Breathed  incense  on  sweet  May,  new-born, 

Than  from  a  thousand  fragrant  bowers 

Slyly  peeped  forth  the  long-pent  flowers, 

And  from  a  thousand  trees  along 

Gushed  out  a  stream  of  liquid  song, 

To  welcome  ill  the  fairest  day 

Of  joyous  Nature's  holiday  ; 

And  in  the  fields  and  lanes  around, 

A  pleasant  tramp  and  cheering  sound 

Of  little  feet  and  voices  free, 

Of  children,  in  their  hottest  glee ; 

Of  dark-eyed  boy  and  tiny  lass, 

So  early  on  the  spangled  grass. 

And  shouting,  each  one  with  his  might. 

Why  feeling  such  a  strange  delight. 

If  you  should  ask,  not  one  could  say. 

Save,  "  0,  it  is  the  first  of  May  ! " 


THE  CRISIS. 

\ViTH  what  an  anguished  sufferance  I  watch. — 
O  God,  if  he  should  wake  to  sleep  no  more  ! — 
0  God,  if  he  should  sleep  to  wake  no  more  ! — 
Striving  his  faint  heart's  slowest  throb  to  catch, 
Mine  own  hath  ceased  to  beat. 

X 


Z2  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

My  child,  what,  at  the  hour, 
If  thou  shouldst  wake — but  not  for  my  caress, 
And  unto  Death  shouldst  breathe  thyself  away, 
As  the  frail  flutter  of  a  summer  day, 
That  we  scarce  feel,  for  very  languidness, 

That  stirred  not  a  flower, 

JSTor  drooping  leaf  1 
Not  so  the  flutter  of  thy  passing  soul, 
Though  fainter  than  the  summer  breath,  which  stirs 
Xever  the  nest-strayed  feather  caught  on  burrs, 
For  it  would  in  me  rouse  a  tempest-roll 

Of  never-ceasing  grief  ! 

He  stirs  !     Lie  still,  my  heart ! 
Thou  who  through  these  long  hours  hast  quiet  lain. 
Till  I  did  think  the  fate  that  for  this  child 
Is  feared  had  passed  on  thee — why  now  be  wild, 
Leaping  within  my  breast,  as  thou  wert  fain 

From  thy  pained  sleep  to  start  ? 

Ilagar,  poor  weeping  one  ! 
How  many  hearts  like  thee  have  tunied  away 
From  where  some  treasured  hope  doth  fading  lie. 
And  breathed  thy  prayer, — "  Let  me  not  see  him  die  1 ' 
He  now  may  hear  my  voice,  who  heard  thee  pray, 

And  gave  thee  back  thy  son. 

He  wakes — my  blessed  boy  ! — 
And  turns  his  eye  inquiring  on  me. 
Life  is  within  in  that  gaze  !  and  from  that  louk 
I  read,  as  from  an  eloquent  writ  book 
My  bliss  restored — and  fold  it  silently 

Unto  my  breast  for  joy. 


CAROLINE  LEAKEY.  32; 

Twice-loved,  twice-given  child  ! 
How  shall  I  take  thee  from  thy  Father's  hands  ? 
When  as  a  weeping  babe  I  pressed  thee  first, 
Thou  wert  a  cooling  stream  to  my  soul's  thirst, 
That  sank  as  rain  unto  its  hot  dry  sands 

Until  the  desert  smiled. 

Eut  now  I  take  thee  back, 
A  pledge  renewed,  a  link  more  firmly  driven 
Of  the  eternal  world,  and  of  His  love, 
"Who  took  thee  gently  from  my  arms  to  prove 
That  thou  wert  not  all  mine,  nor  only  given 

To  fill  my  soul's  deep  lack. 

For  this  re-granted  bliss 
Is  not  a  sacrifice  to  God  meet  now  1 
What  shall  it  be,  my  heart — thy  first,  best  gift? 
Ah  !  now  thou  shrink'st  for  God  a  hand  to  lift 
On  thine  own  Isaac,  and  to  plight  the  vow 

Which  seals  him  ever  His, 

And  thy  faith-trial  completes. 
But  rear  thine  altar,  and  thy  lamb  lay  there ; 
Uplift  thy  slaying  arm — when,  lo  !  behold 
Thy  God,  heard  in  that  angel-voice  of  old, 
Directs  thine  eye  unto  the  thicket  where 

Thine  Isaac's  ransom  bleats. 

It  would  be  ever  thus 
If  we,  0  God,  our  heart-wills  unto  Thine 
Could  learn,  ungrudgingly^,  to  bring ;  the  deed 
Might  then  be  spared  which  makes  us  so  to  bleed : 
Love  is  the  priest  that  standeth  at  Tliy  shrine 

To  intercede  for  us. 


324  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


SLEEP  AND  DEATH. 

They  tell  rue  of  a  pleasant  thing, 
"Which  Cometh  on  a  silent  wing, 
And  flappeth  o'er  the  weary, 
Till  it  fanneth  them  to  sleep, — 
I  am,  0,  how  weary  !  but  it  passeth  o'er  my  head. 

They  tell  me  of  a  gentle  one, 
That  cometh  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  singeth  by  the  weary, 
Till  she  singeth  them  to  sleep, — 
I  am,  0,  how  weary  !  but  she  will  not  sing  to  me. 

And  they  tell  me  of  a  finger. 
Which  doth  o'er  walls  of  darkness  linger, 
Pressing  down  the  heavy  eye, 
Till  it  falleth  off  to  sleep, — 
Mine  eye  is,  0,  how  heavy  !  but  no  finger  soaleth  it. 

They  tell  me  of  a  cup  so  cool, 
With  water  from  a  slumbrous  pool. 
Right  pleasant  to  the  thirsty, 
For  it  lulleth  them  to  sleep, — 
I  am,  0,  how  thirsty  !  but  that  cup  is  drainM  dry. 

They  tell  me  of  another  thing. 
Which  hath  a  still  more  silent  wing, 
And  it  flappeth  o'er  the  weary. 
Till  it  fans  away  their  breath ; 
Its  shadows  are  upon  me, — I  feel  that  fluttering 
wing. 

They  tell  me  of  another  One, 
That  cometh  when  the  day  is  done, 


CAROLINE  LEAKEY.  325 

And  singeth  by  the  weary ; 
iJut  He  singeth  them  to  death  ! 
Ah  !  He  liath  mercy  on  me, — hark  !  He  singeth  by 
me  now. 

They  tell  me  of  another  finger, 
Which  o'er  darker  walls  doth  linger, 
Pressing  down  the  heavy  eye. 
But  sealing  it  for  ever ! 
Mine  eye  is,  0,  how  heavy  !  that  touch  will  seal  it 
soon. 

They  tell  me  of  a  cup  so  cool, 
"With  water  from  a  slumbrous  pool, 
Unpleasant  to  the  thirsty, 
For  it  chills  them  unto  death, — 
I  aui  so  very  thirsty,  I  wiU.  drink  of  even  it ! 


QUEEN  IN  A. 

Not  liere ;  far  away, 
Where  the  dolphins  play, 
She  sitteth  alone, 
On  a  coral  throne. 
With  string  of  pearls 
Her  golden  curls 

Adorning ; 
And  she  gaily  sings. 
And  her  voice  hath  wings, 
And  flieth  away. 
On  the  pearly  spray, 

To  rosy  morning. 


326  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

She  lovetli  to  dress 

Her  sunlit  tress 
"VVitli  flowers  of  ocean-birtli, 

From  a  briny  bod, 

By  salt  spray  fed — 
She  scorneth  flowers  of  earth ! 

Rare  jewels  she  finds, 
And  of  dripping  gems, 

For  her  hair,  she  binds 
Bright  diadems. 

O  royal  and  rare. 

Queen  Ina  fair. 
The  Mermaid  of  the  Soutli ! 


She  chaseth  a\i'ay 
The  dolphin  gay 
From  his  weedy  lair 
By  her  liquid  stair. 
She  loveth  to  ride, 
By  the  nautilus'  side, 
When  his  graceful  boat 
On  tlie  wave  doth  float ; 

And  she  sings  him  a  song 
As  they  sail  along ; 
And  as  she  sings, 
Her  hair  she  flings. 

Spreading  a  golden  sail, 
To  catch  the  gale. 
Queen  Ina,  she 
A  life  of  glee 

Leads  on  the  Southern  soa. 

Not  here  ;  far  away, 
Where  the  dolphins  play, 


CAROLINE  LEAKEY.  327 

licncath  the  wave, 
111  a  ciystal  cave, 
In  the  coral  land, 
By  her  mermaid  band, 
l)oth  Queen  Ina  rest. 
She  lieth  in  state, 
And  the  mermaids  wait 

All  silently ; 
She  lieth  alone 
By  her  empty  throne. 

All  silently. 

And  the  mermaids  weep — 
They  a  vigil  keep, 
nark  !  now  they  sing, 
And  their  voices  ring 

A  solemn  dirge. 
It  soundeth  below, 
And  riseth  above. 

On  a  gentle  surge  ; 
Wave  after  wave 
Doth  onward  lave ; — 
A  tuneful  sweep 
O'er  the  mighty  deep  : 
In  storm  or  in  calm. 
Like  a  voice  of  love 
That  weepeth  a  woe. 
It  soundeth  below, 
And  riseth  above. 
And  the  sailors  know, 
'Neath  that  tuneful  wave, 
In  a  crystal  cave, 
In  her  ocean  land, 
By  her  mermaid  band, 
Queen  Ina  is  laid  to  rest. 


328  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


FRANCES  SESCADAROWNA  LEWIN. 

[Of  Egerton,  St.  Mary's,  South  Australia.  Has  published  a 
volume  entitled  Songs  of  the  South  (Adelaide  :  Scrymgeour 
and  Sons).] 

THE  STORY  OF  ABEL  T  ASM  AN. 

Bold  and  brave,  and  strong  and  stalwart, 

Captain  of  a  sliip  was  he ; 
And  his  heart  was  proudly  thrilling 

With  the  dreams  of  chivalry. 
One  fair  maiden,  sweet  though  stately, 

Lingered  in  his  every  dream, 
Touching  all  his  hopes  of  glory 

With  a  brighter,  nobler  gleam. 

Daughter  of  a  haughty  father, 

Daughter  of  an  ancient  race, 
Yet  her  wilful  heart  surrendered, 

Conquered  by  his  handsome  face  ; 
And  she  spent  her  days  in  looking 

Out  across  the  Southern  seas. 
Picturing  how  his  bark  was  carried 

Onward  by  the  favouring  breeze. 

Little  wonder  that  she  loved  him, 

Abel  Tasnian,  brave  and  tall ; 
Though  the  wealthy  planters  sought  her, 

He  was  dearer  than  them  all. 
Dearer  still  because  her  father 

Said  to  him,  with  distant  prido, 
"Darest  thou,  a  simple  captain, 

Seek  my  daughter  for  thy  bride  ] " 


FRANCES  SESCADAROWNA  LEW  IN.        329 

Ikit  at  length  tlie  gallant  seaman 

Won  himself  an  honoured  name  ; 
When  again  he  met  the  maiden, 

At  her  feet  he  laid  his  fame  : 
Said  to  her,  "  ]\Iy  country  sends  me, 

Trusted  with  a  high  command, 
With  the  Zeelian  and  the  Heemskirli, 

To  explore  the  Southern  strand. 

I  must  claim  it  for  my  country. 

Plant  her  flag  upon  its  shore ; 
But  I  hope  to  win  you,  darling, 

Wlien  the  dangerous  cruise  is  o'er." 
And  her  haughty  sire,  relenting, 

Did  not  care  to  say  him  nay  : 
Flushing  high  with  love  and  valour, 

Sailed  the  gallant  far  away. 

And  the  captain,  Abel  Tasman, 

Sailing  under  Southern  skies, 
Mingled  with  his  hopes  of  glory 

Thoughts  of  one  with  starlike  eyes. 
Onward  sailed  he,  wliere  the  crested 

White  waves  broke  around  his  ship. 
With  the  love-light  in  his  true  eyes, 

And  the  song  upon  his  lip. 

Onward  sailed  he,  ever  onward. 

Faithful  as  the  stars  above  ; 
!Many  a  cape  and  headland  pointing 

Tells  the  legend  of  his  love  : 
For  he  linked  their  names  together, 

Speeding  swiftly  o'er  the  wave — 
Tasman's  Isle  and  Cape  Maria, 

Still  tliey  bear  the  names  he  gave. 


330  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Toil  and  tempest  soon  were  over, 

And  he  turned  liiin  home  again, 
Seeking  her  who  was  his  guiding 

Star  across  the  trackless  main. 
Strange  it  seems  the  eager  captain 

Thus  should  hurr}'  from  his  prize, 
"When  a  thousand  scenes  of  wonder 

Stood  revealed  before  his  eyes. 

But  those  eyes  were  always  looking 

Out  towards  the  Java  seas, 
Where  the  maid  he  loved  was  waiting, 

Dearer  prize  to  him  than  these. 
But  his  mission  was  accomplished, 

And  a  new  and  added  gem 
Sparkling  with  a  wondrous  lustre 

In  the  Dutch  king's  diadem. 

Little  did  the  gallant  seaman 
Think  that,  in  the  days  to  be, 

England's  hand  should  proudly  wrest  it 
From  his  land's  supremacy. 


ONLY. 


Only  a  lovers'  meeting 

Under  the  chestnut-trees. 
Yet  two  fond  hearts  are  beating 

With  passionate  sympathies. 
Only  a  whispered  word. 

Breathed  low  in  the  summer  time. 
Yet  a  woman's  heart  is  stirred 

To  its  depths  by  the  passionate  rhyme. 


FRANCES  SESCADAROWNA  LEW  IN. 

Only  a  tiny  ring 

Clasped  on  a  finger  fair, 
Yet  her  heart  has  passed  for  ever 

Into  another's  care. 
Only  a  single  kiss 

Pressed  on  her  pure  white  brow, 
Yet  a  maiden's  heart  is  happy 

In  the  knowledge  of  Love's  vow. 

Only  a  letter  from  India 

Calling  him  to  its  shore  ; 
Only  a  moonlight  parting, 

Yet  "  Love's  young  dream  "  is  o'er. 
Only  a  year  since  sailing 

When  a  lapse  in  his  letters  came ; 
Only  a  sweet  face  paling. 

Whenever  they  mention  his  name. 

Only  a  letter  at  last — 

Cold  and  haughtily  stern — 
Will  she  try  to  forget  the  past, 

And  all  his  letters  burn  ? 
He  feels  that  they  would  not  be  happy, 

So  he  frees  her  from  her  troth  ; 
He  hopes  she  will  not  mourn  him, 

"  'Twill  be  better  for  them  both." 

Only  a  silent  grief 

When  in  her  room  alone  ; 
But  tears  bring  no  relief 

When  every  hope  is  flown. 
Only  the  constant  memory 

Of  their  meetings  'neath  the  trees, 
Yet  a  girl's  true  heart  is  breaking 

Over  trifles  such  as  these. 


332  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Only  a  silent  drooping 
Surely  day  by  day, 

Only  a  young  life  ebbing 
Swift  to  its  close  away. 


Only  a  letter  sent 

To  him  when  life  had  flown  : 
"  She  had  loved  him,  she  forgave  him. 

But  she  could  not  live  alone. 
She  did  not  blame  him  now, 

She  freed  him  from  his  troth ; 
Though  it  broke  her  heart  to  do  it, 

It  was  better  for  them  both." 


Only  a  luckless  marriage 
On  India's  coral  shore  ; 

Only  two  hearts  imsuited. 
And  quarrels — nothing  more. 


Only  a  little  grave, 

Where  the  grass  is  scarcely  green, 
Only  a  man  beside  it 

With  sad  and  thoughtful  mien  ; 
Only  a  bitter  moan 

Rising  up  from  a  quivering  heart, 
As  he  kneels  beside  that  mound. 

Where  the  violets  freshly  start. 

Only  a  knowledge  he  loved  her 

Far  better  than  his  life. 
Only  the  knowledge  he  hated 

The  Circe  he  called  his  wife ; 


E.  B.  LOUGHRAN.  3^3 

Onl)'^  the  knowledge  he'd  Avrecked 

Both  her  life  and  his  own ; 
Only  a  bitter  regret 

As  he  kneels  beside  the  stone ; 
Only  the  constant  memory 

Of  their  meetings  'neath  the  trees, 
Yet  a  man's  proud  heart  is  breaking 

Over  trifles  such  as  these. 


E.  E.  LOUGHRAN. 

RE-MEETINGS. 

"When  first  I  saw  thee,  something  in  thine  eyes 
Thrilled  me  with  rapture  never  felt  before ; 
My  soul  seemed  suddenly  to  recognise 
A  beauty  known  in  lovely  days  long  o'er. 
And  in  thine  eyes  was  recognition  too, 
And  a  mute  troubled  wonder  in  thy  glance, 
And  a  vain  backward  sweep  through  memory. 
We  met  as  travellers  who  have  wandered  through 
Some  dim-lit  land,  the  home  of  dream  and  trance, 
And  can  recall  not  its  deep  mystery. 

0  yet,  my  love,  though  at  that  moment  alone 
The  currents  of  our  lives  seemed  to  unite, 

1  know  that  in  some  time  and  clime  unknown. 
In  days  that  lie  beyond  faint  memory's  flight. 
Our  souls  together  winged  their  airy  way, 
And  knew  the  rich  joy  in  communion  lies, 
Roaming  the  vistas  of  the  Infinite. 

The  flower  of  our  love  that  blooms  to-day 
Hath  a  deep  root  that  strikes  beyond  the  skioe, 
And  Death  is  impotent  to  wither  it. 


334  ^  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Meseems  I  see  two  spirits  hand  in  hand 
Down-gazing  on  the  star-en  studded  vault, 
Watching  the  W'Ondious  worlds  at  God's  command 
Fulfil  their  orbits  without  stay  or  fault. 
Though  the  emj^yrean  holds  brighter  spheres, 
Upon  one  silver  speck  their  glances  rest, 
Forebodingful ;  and  one,  thine  is  the  voice, 
Says,  *'  Though  we  separate,  yet  have  no  fears, 
No  sjDirit  suffers  obeying  His  behest. 
And  in  reunion  shall  we  yet  rejoice." 

Have  years  or  ages  passed  away  since  then  ? 

We  know  not,  dearest.     This  alone  we  know. 

That,  soul  to  soul,  we  twain  are  one  again. 

And  shall  be,  while  life's  stream  for  both  doth  flow ; 

And  though  once  more  will  severing  come  with  death, 

'Twill  be  a  parting  but  to  reunite. 

Unto  the  second  death,  death  will  be  birth. 

When,  once  again  gazing  from  Heaven  beneath. 

Two  souls  will  say,  "  More  than  the  lost  delight 

Is  ours,  that  once  we  knew  on  yon  dear  earth." 


THE  ABANDONED  SHAFT. 

A  DANGER  to  unwary  feet 

(But  few  feet  travel  hither) 
It  lies,  a  rifled  treasure-house. 

The  treasures  vanished — whither? 
Dark  spreads  below  its  yawning  depth. 

By  plank  or  fence  unguarded  ; 
How  easy  access  to  it  now, 

That  once  so  well  was  warded  ! 


E.  B.  LOUGHRAN.  335 

With  heaps  of  dirt  cast  all  about, 

'Tis  no  inviting  spectacle  ; 
Yet  once  it  was  of  well-based  hopes 

The  highly-prized  receptacle  ! 
How  eagerly  Jim  worked  below, 

To  bare  its  close-hid  treasure, 
While  at  the  windlass  laboured  Joe^ 

A  toil  assuaged  by  pleasure  ! 

And  here  the  windlass  broken  lies — 

Could  ever  sight  be  sadder  1 — 
But  those  who  rise  to  wealth,  we  know, 

Of  course  kick  down  the  ladder. 
(And  sure  a  windlass  scarce  expect 

To  share  a  fate  less  dire  would? 
It  really  shows  some  gratitude 

It  was  not  burned  for  firewood  !) 

I  trace  their  pathway  to  the  creek — 

Ah  !  theirs  were  "  pleasant  ways  "  then  ! 
When  once  a  pair  had  bottomed  rich. 

How  swiftly  sped  the  days  then  ! 
The  creek  the  shaft's  sad  lot  has  shared, 

ISTow  flowing  dull  and  solus. 
That  once  was  thronged  with  anxious  men. 

And  yielded  like  Pactolus. 

Where  now  are  Jim  and  Joe  and  all — 

The  thriftless  and  the  thrifty — 
AVho  filled  the  long-forgotten  rush 

In  stirring  three-and-fifty  ? 
Their  latest  "  claim  "  have  most  "  pegged  out ! " 

Some,  poor  and  old,  still  linger ; 
Some,  old  and  rich,  drive  "Eotten  Kow  " 

And  court  the  public  finger. 


336  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POETS. 

And  one  of  these  I  yesterday 

Saw  in  his  "  crested  "  carriage  : 
A  fair  young  girl  beside  him  sat, 

His  own  by  purch — h'm  .'—marriage. 
Lord  !  how  patrician  he  did  look  ! 

How  high  his  head  did  carry ! 
Could  he  have  been  that  raw-boned  lad 

Who  hailed  from  wild  Glengarry  1 

Could  7ie  have  e'er  fought  Yankee  Bill, 

The  Camp's  sarcastic  joker  ? 
Could  he  have  lost  his  six  months'  pile 

In  one  brief  night  at  poker  1 
Now  he's  a  pillar  of  the  Kirk, 

Has  built  an  institution, 
Swears  "  Liberal "  spells  "  Communist," 

"  Reform  "  "  red  Eevolution." 

All !  Tempora  mutantur  ;  et 

Mutamur  nos  in  illis  ! 
How  the  erst  rushing  current  creeps 

When  gruesome  age  doth  chill  us ! 
The  poker  of  wild  fifty-three 

Is  now  mild  "  speculation  ;  " 
Our  golden  claims,  suburban  lots, 

In  some  desired  location  ! 


Deserted  shaft,  who  wert  my  theme, 

I  fear  I'm  from  thee  wandering. 
And  lose  the  parallels  I'd  draw, 

O'er  old  times  vainly  pondering. 
No  doubt,  if  thou  couldst  speak,  thou'dst  say, 

How  base  it  was  to  leave  thee, 
When  Jim  and  Joe  had  gathered  all 

Of  which  they  could  bereave  tliee. 


E.  B.  LOUGH  RAN.  337 

Eut  know,  my  friend,  tliou  onl}'  shar'st 

The  fate  of  all  creation 
(Thougli  this,  'tis  true,  at  best  is  but 

A  sorry  consolation)  ; 
The  bees  buzz  round  about  the  flowers, 

Till  they've  got  all  the  honey, 
And  Jim  and  Joe  are  flush  of  friends 

But  while  they're  flush  of  money. 

And  just  like  thine  (proud  cavity  !) 

The  lot  of  poets,  sages. 
Since  our  old  earth  began  to  turn 

And  measure  out  the  ages. 
The  "  many-headed  "  SAvallows  all 

Their  music  or  their  learning — 
Nought  more  to  gain — its  idols  leaves. 

With  no  thoughts  of  returning. 

But  though  they  may  neglected  die, 

The  years  of  triumph  ended, 
Their  thoughts  and  words  still  light  the  world 

As  with  a  sunrise  splendid. 
And  tJioit,  take  comfort  that  thy  gifts, 

O'er  earth  and  ocean  flying, 
Fill  commerce'  sails,  turn  trade's  loud  wheels. 

Though  thou'rt  deserted  lying ! 


DEAD  LEAVES:  A   SONG. 

When  these  dead  leaves  were  green,  love, 

November's  skies  were  blue. 
And  summer  came  with  lips  aflame 

The  gentle  spring  to  woo ; 

Y 


338  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  to  us,  wandering  hand  in  hand, 

Life  was  a  fairy  scene, 
Tliat  golden  morning  in  the  woods 

When  these  dead  leaves  were  green 

How  dream-like  now  that  dewy  morn, 
Sweet  with  the  wattle's  flowers, 

When  love,  love,  love  was  all  our  theme, 
And  yoiith  and  hope  were  ours  ! 

Two  happier  hearts  in  all  the  land 
There  were  not  then,  I  ween. 

Than  those  young  lovers' — yours  and  mine- 
When  these  dead  leaves  were  green. 

How  gaily  did  you  pluck  these  leaves 

From  tlie  acacia  bough, 
To  mark  the  lyric  we  had  read — 

I  can  repeat  it  now  ! 
While  came  the  words,  like  music  sweet, 

Your  smiling  lips  between — 
*'  So  fold  my  love  within  your  heart " — 

When  these  dead  leaves  were  green  ! 

How  many  springs  have  passed  since  then 

Ah,  wherefore  should  we  count? 
The  years  have  sped,  like  waters  fled, 

From  Time's  unceasing  fount. 
We've  had  our  share  of  happiness, 

Our  share  of  care  have  seen  ; 
But  love  alone  has  never  flown 

Since  these  dead  leaves  were  green. 

Your  heart  is  kind  and  loving  still. 

Your  face  to  me  as  fair 
As  when,  that  morn,  the  sunshine  played 

Amid  your  golden  hair. 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  339 

So,  dearest,  sweethearts  still  we'll  be. 

As  we  have  ever  been, 
And  keep  our  love  as  fresh  and  true 

As  when  these  leaves  were  green. 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE. 

[This  well-known  Victorian  poet  and  litterateur  was  born  iu  Scotland. 
He  lias  been  for  many  years  before  the  Australian  public  as 
the  poet  of  the  now  fast-fleeting  race  we  have  displaced  at 
the  antipodes.  M'Crae's  Mdinha  and  BaUacUadro  are  really 
beautiful  attempts  to  infuse  poetry  into  the  legends  of  the 
Aborigines.  Mr.  M'Crae  has  contributed  much  excellent 
"  occasional "  verses  to  the  Melbourne  weekly  newspapers  and 
reviews,  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  will  be  collected  into  a 
compendious  volume.  He  is  married,  and  has  held  for  many 
years  an  official  appointment  in  the  Victorian  Civil  Service. 
Mr.  M'Crae  is  a  man  of  singular  taste  and  culture,  and  also 
no  mean  artist,  and  on  one  occasion  cleverly  illustrated  a  comic 
aimual  for  ]\Ir.  Garnet  Walch.] 

RICHARD  HEN  GIST  HORNE* 

Two  centuries  by  Time's  glass  he  came  too  late 
(The  statelier  muse  entranced  him  by  the  way),. 
And  when  he  woke  it  was  to  find  all  state, 
And  church,  and  king-craft  changed, 
Romaunt  and  play. 

Still  would  his  muse  the  stern-browed  gods  invoke 
In  vigorous  numbers  worthy  of  the  Greek, 
Which,  rolling  down  the  teuns,  grandly  broke 
On  modern  ears,  in  melody  antique — 
Or,  flinging  far  the  lute,  he'd  deftly  fit 

*  This  poem  was  printed  from  a  very  careless  manuscript,  the 
only  copy  the  editor  could  procure. 


340  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  syrinx  to  his  lips,  breathing  therein  such  soft 

And  gentle  cadence  as  belongs  to  it, 

To  rouse  tlie  fauns  and  dryads  of  the  grove, 

The  mischief-loving  satyrs,  and  such  life 

As  was,  ■\vlien  man  with  giants  chiefly  strove. 

Caviare,  like  Shelley,  to  the  general,  he 

Yet  lives,  or  rather  now  begins  to  live. 

When  what  most  men  call  dead ;  right  solitary 

'IS^eath  that  brave  soil  from  whence  he  sprang  and  grew 

Lies  Richard  Hengist  Home,  or  what  was  he, 

Brave  singer  of  blue  skies  and  bluer  sea, 

That  in  their  noble  ever-wedded  blue 

Prefigure  in  their  shapes  Eternity. 

"With  Spencer  or  witli  Shakespeare  he  had  graced 

A  court  of  sages  and  heroic  souls ; 

And  then  our  grand  Elizabeth  had  placed 

The  laurel  on  his  brows  'mid  thund'rous  skies. 

Hail !  brave  Orion,  girt  about  with  stars, 

The  deathless  calm  of  ages  in  his  eyes. 

With  lion-skin  on  arm,  which  fitly  bars 

The  idler  from  Elysium ;  now  we  hear 

With  knowledge,  arts,  all  excellence  of  life 

And  comfort,  while  the  Proto-Martyr  lay 

'Neath  the  fierce  eagle  'mid  Caucasian  snows. 

But  here,  beneath  the  Cross,  we  do  not  mete 
Our  guerdon  to  the  poet — we  forget 
The  virile  genius  and  the  song  health-sweet, 
Twin  gems  in  one  brave  antique  scrollwork  set. 

Alas  for  us  !     Alas  !  the  times,  that  he, 
Our  chiefest,  noblest  singer  thus  should  die. 
All  undistinguished — not  a  "  C.  M.  G." — 
To  lay  upon  his  coffin  reverently. 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  341 

The  glorious  epic  of  the  age  again 

Kings  through  the  vaulted  heav'n ;  behold  the  seor 

Who  sang  Orion's  labours,  showed  to  men 

Him  wlioin  we  gaze  on,  'mid  the  stars  unfurled, 

And  mapped  in  silver  splendour  on  the  night, 

"With  feet  upon  a  subjugated  world. 

In  after-echoes  clear,  not  less  intense, 
We  trace  the  legend  of  the  Friend  of  Man, 
Prometheus  !  by  whose  skill  and  shrewd  pretence 
Fire,  brought  from  Heaven,  upon  oar  hearths  began. 
Yet  more  distinguished  thus,  beyond  the  blue 
That  fences  us  from  other,  stranger  lands 
Is  the  grand  name  he  bears — a  poet  true. 
The  singer  of  brave  work  and  helping  hands. 


LINES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  COOK  CENTENARY. 

SUGGESTED    BY  A   RELIC    IN    THE    FORM    OF    A   PAPER-WEIGHT 

MADE   FROM   ONE   OP   THE   TIMBERS   OP 

H.M.S.    "endeavour." 

"  Ex  pede  Herculem  ! — Behold  ! 
A  chip  from  Britain's  block  of  old, 
A  Heart  of  Oak  from  Chips's  mould 

Aboard  the  brave  "  Endeavour  1 " 
Methinks  my  life's  begun  again, 
I  view  anew  each  rope  and  chain 
That  swung  or  creaked  in  wind  and  rain, 

Or  rattled  all  together. 

In  days  when  "  tails  "  were  all  the  vogue. 
And  every  handsome  sleek-limbed  rogue. 
From  John  O'Groat's  to  Cape  La  Hogue, 
Wore  stockings,  pumps,  and  breeches, 


342  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"With  gold-laced  coat  and  huge-flapped  vest, 
Plum-blue  ;  maroon  for  Sunday-best, 
Three-cornered  hat,  and  all  the  rest 

(Tedious  to  reckon  ^vhich  is) 
When  Mister  Dally,  the  marine, 
At  every- day  parade  was  seen 
In  belted,  buckled,  buttoned  sheen, 

With  gorget  at  his  throat. 
Tight  breeches  white,  and  gaiters  black, 
Long  cartridge-box  behind  his  back, 
Fiom  pipeclayed  belt  all  hanging  slack 

Against  his  scarlet  coat. 

While  mincing  with  a  cat-like  gait, 
On  shoes  and  buckles  walked  the  mate 
("This  watch,"  sole  arbiter  of  Fate), 

With  glass  beneath  his  arm  ; 
As  snowy  deck  and  towering  mast 
And  canvas  spread  to  catch  the  blast, 
His  roving  eyes  approved,  when  cast 

On  such  a  nautic  charm. 
I  see  our  stalwart  boatswain  too, 
In  formal  coat  of  naval  blue. 
With  well-soaped  long,  portentous  queue 

That  dangled  from  his  head  ; 
And  all  our  quid-weaned  foremast  hands, 
Bronzed,  cruising  oft  to  many  lands. 
Whereof  they  only  knew  the  strands. 

Excepting  such  as  read. 

And  our  young  "  middies  "  full  of  fun 
(Their  sailor-lives  but  half  begun), 
Straggling  across  some  spar  or  gun 
Or  scrambling  in  a  race. 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  343 

And  last,  our  grey-liaired  old  Commander, 

The  floating  empire's  Alexander, 

AATio  walked  the-  deck  -with  sage  Solander 

At  sober  pace. 
I  mind  him  still !  his  figure  spare, 
His  twinkling  eyes,  his  powdered  hair, 
His  face  well  mapped  with  lines  of  care, 

But  always  pleasant. 
Wrath,  when  'twas  his,  was  like  the  wind, 
Blown  over  soon ;  and,  out  of  mind. 
His  manner  debonnair  and  kind. 

The  same  to  peer  and  peasant. 

One  hundred  years  ago  to-day 
Our  anchors  bit  in  Botany  Bay, 
On  whose  cool  waters  blue  we  lay 

One  week  .  .  .  (the  fleetest !) 
Our  red-crossed  "  Ancient "  brave  was  flying, 
Sublime  !  o'er  clothes  and  hammocks  drying, 
Earth,  air,  and  sea,  and  sky  all  vying 

Which  should  be  sweetest.  .  .  . 
That  day  we  viewed  a  silent  shore, 
How  lone  the  loveliness  of  yore  ! 
Soft  hills  behind,  the  sea  before, 

Both  calmly  blue. 
Those  headlands  pearly  chaplets  wore, 

All  wet  with  dew. 

The  beach,  a  broken  quoit  of  gold, 
Rimmed  in  the  liquid  sapphire  cold, 
The  bay  that  held  like  lamb  in  fold 

Our  weary  ark  ; 
While  round  and  round  beyond  the  sand 
Outstretched  the  pristine  forest  grand, 
That  clouded  all  the  dreary  land 

With  shadows  dark. 


344  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Beneath  a  sturdy  underwood, 
Midway  'tween  sand  and  forest  stood, 
Whence  peeped  strange  flowers  as  from  a  hood 

Of  coolest  green ; 
'^Vllile  birds  of  brightest  colours  vied 
With  floral  tints  in  summer  pride 

As  on  some  painted  screen. 

Beyond  all  these  were  mounts  and  hills 
With  gold  mayhap  among  the  rills 
That  trickled  o'er  their  wave- worn  sills 
Of  jasper  and  chalcedony. 


To-day  the  golden  quoit  is  here. 
The  belt  of  grass  seems  dry  and  sere, 
The  forest  sombre,  swart,  severe, 

And  few  the  flowerets  gay. 
Hark  !  whence  that  loudly  clamouring  bell  1 
Mercy  !  what's  this  ? — a  huge  hotel. 
Some  change  in  all  save  thee  !     Ah  !  well, 

Sweet  sapphire  bay  ! 
Change  speeds  along  the  purple  coast 
To  Sydney,  where  our  fame  they  boast, 
Drinking  our  memory  in  the  toast 

Of  Captain  Cook. 

N'ow  have  ye  towns  and  ships  and  lights, 
With  gardens,  theatres,  and  sights. 
Good  look-outs  on  your  craggy  heights 

To  bring  to  book 
Approaching  enemies  or  storms 
In  warring  elemental  forms, 

Thank  Captain  Cook  1 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  345 

You've  forts  and  tow'rs  and  guns  and  boats, 
A  starry  flag  that  o'er  you  floats, 
A  Senate  you  create  by  votes  : 

Cannon  and  limbers.  .  .  . 
But,  an  ye  spurn  these  antique  notes, 

"  Shiver  my  timbers  ! " 


FORBY  SUTHERLAND. 

A   STORY   OP   BOTAXT   BAY. 
A.D.    1770. 

A  LANE  of  elms  in  June ; — the  air 
Of  eve  is  cool  and  calm  and  sweet. 

See  !  straying  here  a  youthful  pair, 
AYith  sad  and  slowly  moving  feet. 

On  hand  in  hand  to  yon  grey  gate, 
O'er  which  the  rosy  apples  swing ; 

And  there  they  vow  a  mingled  fate. 

One  day  when  George  the  Third  is  king. 

The  ring  scarce  clasped  her  finger  fair. 
When,  tossing  in  their  ivied  tow'r. 

The  distant  bells  made  all  the  air 
Melodious  with  that  golden  hour. 

Then  sank  the  sun  out  o'er  the  sea, 

Sweet  day  of  courtship  fond,  .  .  .  the  last ! 

riie  holy  hours  of  twilight  flee 

And  speed  to  join  the  Sacred  Past. 


346  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  liouse-dove  on  the  moss-grown  thatch 
Is  murm'ring  love-songs  to  his  mate, 

As  lovely  Nell  noAv  lifts  the  latch 
Beneath  the  apples  at  the  gate. 

A  plighted  maid  she  nears  her  home, 
Those  gentle  eyes  with  weeping  red ; 

Too  soon  her  swain  must  breast  the  foam, 
Alas  !  with  that  last  hour  he  fled. 

And,  ah  !  that  dust-cloud  on  the  road. 
Yon  heartless  coach-guard's  blaring  horn ; 

T>i\t  nought  beside,  that  spoke  or  showed 
Her  sailor  to  poor  Kell  forlorn. 

She  dreams  ;  and  lo  !  a  ship  that  ploughs 
A  foamy  furrow  through  the  seas, 

As,  plunging  gaily,  from  her  bows 
She  scatters  diamonds  on  the  breeze. 

Swift,  homeward  bound,  with  flags  displayed 
In  pennoned  pomp,  with  drum  and  fife, 

And  all  the  proud  old-world  parade 
That  marks  the  man-o'-war  man's  life. 

She  dreams  and  dreams  ;  her  heart's  at  sea. 
Dreams  while  she  wears  the  golden  ring ; 

Her  spirit  follows  lovingly 

One  humble  servant  of  the  king. 

And  thus  for  years,  since  Hope  survives 
To  cheer  the  maid  and  nerve  the  youth. 

"  Forget-me-not !  " — how  fair  it  thrives 
Where  planted  in  the  soil  of  Truth  ! 


GEORGE  GORDON  MACRAE.  347 

The  skies  are  changed  ;  and  o'er  the  sea, 

Within  a  calm,  sequestered  nook, 
Rests  at  her  anchor  thankfully 

The  tall-stcrned  ship  of  gallant  Cook. 

Tlie  emerald  shores  ablaze  with  flow'rs, 

The  sea  reflects  the  smiling  sky, 
Soft  breathes  the  air  of  perfumed  bow'rs — 

How  sad  to  leave  it  all,  and  die  ! 

To  die,  when  all  around  is  fair 

And  steeped  in  beauty ; — ah  !  'tis  hard 

AVhen  ease  and  joy  succeed  to  care 

And  rest,  to  "watch"  and  "mounted  guard,' 

I'.ut  harder  still,  when  one  dear  plan, 

The  end  of  all  his  life  and  cares. 
Hangs  by  a  thread ;  the  dying  man 

INIost  needs  our  sympathy  and  piay'rs  ! 

'Twas  thus  with  Forby  as  he  lay 

Wan  in  his  narrow  canvas  cot ; 
Sole  tenant  of  the  lone  "sick  bay," 

Though  "mates"  came  round,  he  heard  them  not. 

For  days  his  spirit  strove  and  fought, 
But,  ah  !  the  frame  was  all  too  weak. 

Some  phantom  strange,  it  seemed  he  sought, 
And  vainly  tried  to  rise  and  speak. 

At  last  he  smiled  and  brightened  up, 

The  noonday  bugle  went ;  and  he 
Drained  ('twas  his  last)  the  cooling  cup 

A  messmate  offered  helpfully. 


348  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

His  tongue  was  loosed — "  I  hear  the  horn  ! 

Ah,  Nell !  7ny  mimhers  flying.     See  ! — 
The  horses  too  ; — they've  had  their  corn. 

Alas  !  dear  love  !  .  .  .  I  part  from  thee  ! " 

He  waved  his  wasted  hand,  and  cried, 

"  Sweet  Nell !     Dear  maid  !     My  own  true  Nell ! 

The  coach  won't  wait  for  me  !  "  .  .  .  and  died — 
And  this  was  Forby's  strange  farewell. 

Next  morn  the  barge,  with  muffled  oars, 
Pulls  slowly  forth,  and  leaves  the  slip 

With  flags  half-mast,  and  gains  the  shores, 
While  silence  seals  each  comrade's  lip. 

They  bury  him  beneath  a  tree, 

His  treasure  in  his  bosom  hid. 
What  was  that  treasure  1     Go  and  see  ! 

Long  since  it  burst  his  coffin-lid  ! 

Nell  gave  to  Forby,  once  in  play, 

Some  hips  of  roses,  with  the  seeds 
Of  hedgerow  plants,  and  flow'rets  gay 

(In  England  such  might  count  for  weeds). 

"Take  these,"  cries  smiling  Nell,  "to  sow 
In  foreign  lands ;  and  when  folk  see 

The  English  roses  bloom  and  grow. 
Some  one  may  bless  an  unknown  me." 

The  turf  lies  green  on  Forby's  bed, 

A  hundred  years  have  passed,  and  more, 

Lut  twining  over  Forby's  head 

Are  Nell's  sweet  roses  on  that  shore. 


GEORGE  GORDON  MCRAE.  349 

The  violet  and  the  eglantine, 

With  sweet-breathed  cowslips,  deck  the  spot, 
And  nestling  'mid  them  in  the  shine, 

The  meek,  blue-eyed  "  Forget-me-not !  "  * 


ILMA  DE  MURSKA. 

HER     "pastoral     SONG "     (SANS    WORDS),     AS     HEARD     BY    A 

HUNGARIAN   PATRIOT   AT   THE   MELBOURNK 

TOWN   HALL,    AUGUST    1875. 

'TwAS  close  on  midnight  when  we  met ; 

The  scene,  a  wine-shop  clean  and  neat, 

With  benches  white,  and  tables  set, 

A  counter  .  .   .   shall  I  name  the  street  1 

But,  no  !  that  matters  nought  to  you, 

The  man  I  met  is  far  at  sea, 

And  now  out-gazing  o'er  the  blue. 

Dreams  his  dear  land  may  yet  be  free. 

I  spoke.   .  .  .   He  raised  his  glass  on  high, 

The  flaring  jet  of  gaslight  lit 

The  generous  vintage  gloriously, 

Like  molten  carbuncle  was  it. 

"  I've  seen,"  quoth  he,  with  tear  in  eye, 

(Would  this  grand  beaker  were  Tukay  !) 

*  Forb}"  Sutherland,  one  of  the  sailors  of  Captain  Cook's  Expedi- 
tion, was  the  first  Englishman  that  died  in  Australia,  and  the  first 
buried  under  Australian  soil.  A  packet  of  wild-flower  seed  given 
to  him  by  his  sweetheart  on  leaving  England  was  placed  in  the 
coffin  along  with  him.  These  seeds  (or  some  of  them)  grew  and 
flourished  on  the  grave  in  after-time.  The  roses  were  there,  Henry 
Kendall  lias  told  me,  even  in  his  day. 


350  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  plains,  tlie  hills  of  Hungary. 
And  show  me  who'll  unsay  my  say  ? 
She  sang,  the  street  is  crowded  yet, 
The  clock  still  counts  the  waning  night 
By  minutes  from  the  tow'r,  where  set 
She  beams  like  moon  in  harvest  bright. 
And  each  takes  home,  his  own  to  keep, 
Sweet  echoes  that  must  haunt  his  sleep. 


She  sings, — and  like  a  falcon,  I 

Sail,  wings  on  edge,  against  the  wind, 

Across  the  Pusztas  bare  and  dry, 

Brown,  boundless  heath  (not  all  unkind), 

And  as  I  sail,  beneath  my  glance 

The  farmer's  cot  and  stacks  swim  past, 

The  growing  crops  all  wave  and  dance 

And  rustle  in  the  whistling  blast ; 

White  meek-eyed  oxen  at  the  plough 

Strain  shoulder-forward  'gainst  the  yoke  : 

The  rosy  milkmaid  seeks  her  cow 

\Vith  warbled  song — while  round  the  oak 

Are  swine,  'mid  leaves  and  "mast  "  nose-deep 

And  stretched,  supine  and  lazily, 

The  swarthy  swineherd  sound  asleep. 

A  shepherd  there  in  sheepskin  cloak. 

With  pipe  aglow,  behind  a  rock, 

And  watching  through  the  wreathed  smoke 

The  gentle  movements  of  the  flock — 

On  !  on  !  o'er  moorland  and  morass. 

(She  sings  !) — I  pass  where  sombre  trees 

Spread  robes  of  shadow  on  the  grass, 

Or  wave  grave  welcome  to  the  breeze — 

Now  'tis  a  pond — a  tiny  lake 

'Wherein  some  moss-grown  thatch  is  glassed. 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  351 

Beside  whose  marge,  a  bowery  brake 

"With  flow'rs  afire,  and  foliage  massed. 

There  ! — perched  aloft,  the  stork  behold  ! 

Upon  the  chimney  black  and  bare, 

Cut  sharply  out  against  the  gold 

Of  Magyar  sunset  "past  compare," 

And  round  him,  see  the  gem-necked  doves 

That  coo  and  sob,  and  wheel  and  light. 

Vexing  the  sweet  air  with  their  loves 

Proclaimed  from  rustic  roof-trees'  height. 

And  out  beyond  view  miles  of  vine 

In  marshalled  ranks ;  and  here  the  press 

Whence  pours  the  flood  of  Magyar  wine, 

All  night ! — and  this — but  nothingness  ! 

She  «ings  ! — I  see  the  Danube  glance 

'Tween  fields  of  crimson-tasselled  maize. 

She  sings  ! — For  me  the  maidens  dance 

'Neath  the  dear  trees  of  olden  days. 

Ah  !  Spring  ! — 'tis  Magyar  spring-tide  here  ! 

With  opening  flowers  and  hum  of  bee. 

The  stork  stands  knee-deep  in  the  mere. 

The  air  is  faint  with  melody. 

0  Spring  !  thou'rt  full  of  nightingales  ; 

The  breeze  a  tremble,  as  each  note, 

Fraught  with  sad  sweetness,  sweeps  the  sails 

Where  lovers  down  the  Danube  float ; 

The  faithful  stork  returns  with  Spring, 

Silent  ...   he  is  our  sentinel  .  .   . 

All  night  the  nightingale  doth  sing, 

While  joyous  pjeans  her  bosom  swell, 

Or  'mid  the  gentle  forest-glooms. 

By  twilight  near  the  rippling  tide, 

Or  'mid  the  moonlit  grove's  perfumes, 

She  sings  alike  for  maid  and  bride. 

Yes  !  yes  !  to-night  I've  heard  her  voice. — 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Lain  'tween  the  olive  and  the  vine, 

Danced  a  wild  measure.     Soul,  rejoice, 

Thou'rt  drunk  with  true  Hungarian  wine  ! 

Rich  fragrance  from  the  fields  she  brought 

The  rustling  of  the  river-reeds, 

The  smiling  maid  I  madly  sought, 

The  land  of  Heroes  and  their  deeds ! 

Yes  !  She,  another  Hebe,  poured 

For  me  (the  while),  another  dove. 

The  wine  of  song  ! — and,  swift  up-soared 

My  soul  to  brighter  skies  above. 

Fresh  colour  to  a  faded  life 

That  old-world  song  of  hers  has  given ; 

The  pain,  the  care,  the  bootless  strife 

Forgotten  straight — and  all  is  Heaven. 


FROM  ''MAMBA  THE  BRIGHT-EYED." 

Mamba  remote  and  silent  sate. 
Secluded  like  the  youths  who  wait 
The  bidding  of  the  tribal  sires 
To  join  them  by  the  myst'ry  fires. 
Not  ours  the  wisdom  nor  the  light 
To  shadow  forth  that  solemn  rite  ; 
Nor  what  the  word,  nor  what  the  way, 
Tliat  moulds  a  man  from  boyish  clay. 

Let  it  suffice — the  rite  was  o'er; 
They  led  him  to  the  river-shore, 
Whose  grassy  curves  wound  in  and  out 
Between  the  tree-trunks,  tall  and  stout. 
Headlong  he  plunged,  came  out  again, 
Shook  from  hi£  locks  the  liver-rain, 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  353 

And  stood  between  his  guard  and  guide 

A  new-made  man,  in  all  his  pride. 

Flowers  on  his  brow,  a  golden  wreath, 

They  placed  :  his  bright  eyes  beamed  beneath  ; 

And  thus,  with  nodding  blossoms  crowned, 

They  homewards  led  the  "newly  found," 

Terillin  rose — the  grave,  the  grey — 
And  met  the  comers  on  their  way  ; 
Advancing,  took  the  crowned  one's  hand, 
And  led  him  tow'rds  the  snow-capped  band. 
"Fathers  ! "  he  cried,  "  I  bring  with  me 
One  passed  the  ancient  mystery, 
That  ye  and  I,  and  all  the  old, 
Have  known,  but  ne'er  to  stranger  told. 
He  comes,  a  man  amongst  our  men — 
Heaven  send  us  such  a  one  again  ! 
"What  though  no  father's  name  he  bears, 
'Not  badge  of  father's  bravery  wears  1 
Shall  he  be  less  among  his  peers 
Because  as  yet  unfleshed  his  spears  1 
Did  Burtalcaang,  who  bears  no  yoke. 
E'er  face  the  dreaded  Ghim-boboke  1 
Or  Pahmeel,  whose  wild  laughter  rings 
Through  all  the  camp,  e'er  trim  the  wings 
Of  flying  foes,  that  fell  before 
His  spear-shaft  stained  with  traitor's  gore  1 
Ninghim,  or  Bangan,  can  they  say 
Mamba's  without  a  sire  to-day  1 
His  sire  behold !     Am  I  not  he — 
His  father  in  the  mystery  1 

Nameless  should  be  the  silent  dead  * 
(And  here  Terillin  bowed  his  head) ; 

*  In  allusion  to  the  aboriginal  custom,  which  forbids  all  mention 
of  the  name  of  the  dead. 

Z 


354  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

But  though  all  nameless  In  the  dust, 
To  nameless  memory  be  just. 
His  father  "svas  the  gallant  son 
"Whom  glory  from  affection  won. 
When,  "waking  once  from  dreams  of  joy, 
They  told  me  I  had  lost  my  boy, 
Eed  was  my  spear,  and  red  my  hand — 
I  raised  the  camp  with  fiery  brand ; 
But  all  the  blood  was  spilt  in  vain, 
I  could  not  bring  him  back  again. 
Childless  for  long,  I  see  my  son, 
His  life  as  'twere  again  begun. 
But  I  am  old,  unnerved,  and  grey, 
And  half  my  strength  is  snatched  away. 
Thus  to  Nernepten  I  bequeath 
The  boy  who  wears  the  golden  wreath. 
Behold  in  me  thy  sire's  proud  sire  ; 
Embrace  me,  boy  ! — join  fire  to  fire," 
This  to  young  Mamba,  as  he  flew 
Into  the  arms  of  grandsire  true. 
Pahmeel  and  Ninghim  hung  the  head  ; 
The  history  round  the  camp-fire  spread  ; 
And  Bangan  bold  and  Burtalcaang 
Each  felt  of  burning  shame  the  pang. 

"  'Twas  glorious — yes  !  bu^t  was  it  well," 
Cried  Taalar,  "  of  the  dead  to  tell  1 
To  raise  again  from  where  it  rests 
The  secret  buried  in  our  breasts — 
The  woe  felt  when  our  hero  slain 
Victorious  fell  on  Kyndia's  plain  ? 
0  !  Deatli  may  chance  to  be  forespoke 
E'en  at  our  solemn  Ghim-boboke. 
And  though,  methinks,  a  brave  grandsire 
Sits  next  him  by  the  mystery  fire ; 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  355 

And  though  his  sire  at  last  is  known — 
Albeit  his  burning  soul  is  flown — 
JNIamba  may  never  live  to  mourn 
Tcrillin  from  his  children  torn." 
This,  hoarsely  whispered  by  TaaUir, 
All  silent  else  both  near  and  far ; 
And  Mamba,  'mid  the  elders  placed, 
Sate  while  his  face  with  lines  they  traced.* 

The  day  had  fled,  the  moon  arose, 

Night  strai^4^t  began  with  evening's  close — 

A  night  whose  calm  and  silvery  sheen 

Befitted  well  the  wild  yapeen. 

Within  the  circle  of  the  camp 

Blazed  the  clear  fire,  while  measured  tramp 

Of  dancing  warriors  shook  the  ground, 

To  song  and  time-sticks'  throbbing  sound. 

There  twice  two  hundred  feet  advanced 

There  twice  a  hundred  malkas  glanced 

Bright  in  the  moon,  that  silvered  o'er 

The  arms  that  ail  those  malkas  bore. 

Wild  the  device,  and  strange  the  sign 

That  stared  in  many  a  snowy  line 

From  beaming  face  and  heaving  breast, 

And  limbs  that  seldom  paused  to  rest ; 

Whilst  all  the  ril>like  lines  laid  on 

Made  each  man  seem  a  skeleton. 

Nodded  the  feathers  from  the  red 

And  netted  band  that  bound  each  head, 

And  hoarsely  rustling  leaves  of  trees 

Shook  round  dark  ankles  in  the  breeze. 

The  singers  with  their  time-sticks  rang 

The  cadence  of  the  song  they  sang ; 

And  every  face  and  limb  below. 

And  tree  above  them,  caught  the  glow 

*  The  adornment  for  the  "  yapeen  "  or  corroboree. 


356  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

That  spread  from  camp-fire's  rising  blaze, 
Lighting  the  yapeen's  wondrous  maze 
Of  feet  and  ankles  in  the  dance 
With  fitful  gleam  or  twinkling  glance. 

Conspicuous  'mid  the  dancing  crowd, 
Whose  ranks  alternate  swayed  and  bowed. 
Shone  Mamba,  tricked  with  wild  design, 
And  symbol  traced  in  waving  line  ; 
No  limbs  more  active  wore  the  green 
At  yon  great  Ghim-boboke  yapeen  ; 
And  no  two  arms  more  graceful  there 
In  circling  motion  cleft  the  air 
Than  his — and  his  the  eagle-eye 
Inspiring  all  the  minstrelsy. 
The  young  and  old  in  groups  around, 
Drank  in  the  sight,  the  joy,  the  sound. 
And  Mamba's  form  throughout  the  dance 
Attracted  every  wondering  glance. 
Borote  !  she  viewed  him,  and  she  wept — 
Proud  of  her  son  ;  and  then  she  crept 
Alone  into  the  darkness  wild, 
And  there  bewailed  her  sundered  child. 
Out  far  beyond  the  camp  leant  she 
Her  aching  head  against  a  tree ; 
The  fires  behind  her  brightly  burned, 
The  turf  the  dancers  lightly  spurned  ; 
And  through  the  forest  laughter  rang, 
As  all  the  sitting  matrons  sang 
To  time-stick  cadence  by  the  fire 
The  joy  of  him  "  that  lacked  a  sire." 
"Ah  me  !  "  groaned  Borote,  *'  is  it  well 
That  I  should  live  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  love  bestowed  and  love  returned, 
Love  lost  again,  or  all  unlearned  ? 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  357 

That  I — the  only  joy  he  knew — 

False  to  myself,  to  him  still  true, 

Should  here  alone,  with  salt  tears'  flow, 

AYeep  o'er  his  joy  and  call  it  woe?" 

She  sobbed ;  the  tears  ran  down  apace — 

Jjlent  in  each  other  on  her  face, 

Like  sorrows  such  as  seldom  come 

Alone — but  join  and  make  the  sum 

Of  one  vast  melting,  burning  grief, 

That  ever  brings  its  own  relief. 

She  wept,  and  found  her  heart's  distress 

Worthless  and  worse  than  nothingness ; 

Reproached  herself,  and  yet  she  sighed, 

As  her  sweet  streaming  face  she  dried ; 

And  passing  to  her  bower  alone. 

With  dragging  foot  and  fitful  moan, 

Paused  sadly  by  the  ashes  there. 

For  the  dark  hearth  was  cold  and  bare ; 

Then  laid  her  down  all  lost  in  woe, 

Her  lullaby  the  river's  flow. 

Grief  brought  its  balm — now  past  the  worst. 

And  all  the  river  murmurs  nurst 

Her  soul  to  sleep,  nor  sent  a  dream, 

Nor  yet  of  joy  nor  hope  a  gleam. 

Suns  set,  and  many  a  changing  moon 
Shone  on  the  sad  one  all  too  soon ; 
Though  Mamba  still  increased  in  grace, 
Whilst  the  bright  radiance  of  his  face 
Was  foremost  theme  with  young  and  old — 
His  port  the  envy  of  the  bold  ; 
A  mighty,  stalwart  hunter  ho, 
Fit  hero  for  camp  minstrelsy. 


358  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

THE  AUBERGE: 

A  SOUVENIR  OF  NORMANDY. 


I  LOVE  a  Tavern  old,  wherein 
To  pass  a  night  or  so — no  sin, 

Although  'tis  pleasant — 
And  drink  (enjoying  well-earned  ease), 
Before  I  taste  my  Switzer  cheese, 

Magon  with  pheasant — 
For  me  the  brilliant  bougies  burn. 
To  me  the  omelette  comes  in  turn, 

With  brandy  blazing, 
"Whilst  on  the  hearth  'tween  iron  dogs 
Roars  up  the  ruddy  fire  of  logs 

With  glow  amazing. 

In  such  a  cosy  nook  can  I 

The  world,  and  time,  and  care  defy, 

And  eat  my  pear 
And  quaff  my  chahlis,  while  I  think 
Of  Austral  vintages,  and  drink 

My  petit  verre. 
The  softest,  blandest  eau  de  vie, 
Whose  warmth  soon  enters  into  me. 

My  heart  to  soften  ; 
And  cafe  noir  in  tiny  sips, 
As  the  cigar  forsakes  my  lip", 

Slow  and  not  often.  .  .  . 


Another  Tavern  now  I  haunt. 

O'er  which  two  tattered  banners  flaunt, 


GEORGE  GORDON  M'CRAE.  359 

One  red — one  lettered. 
The  last  with  misspelt  legend,  "BEDDS." 
And  "  BILLY ARDS  "  on  its  waving  shreds, 

That  might  be  bettered. 
But  here  there's  company  galore 
Of  those  that  mine  or  keep  the  store, 

Who'd  else  live  dully  ; 
Who  here  knock  down  the  blessed  tin 
They  found  so  hard  to  gather  in 

From  yonder  gully. 

Here  "rough  and  ready  "  is  the  fare. 
And,  ah  !  I  miss  my  mellow  pear  ; 

Yet  ne'ertheless. 
Beneath  the  uncouth,  country  sign, 
I  drink  my  sound  Australian  wine. 

The  vintner  bless. 
And  only  wish  'twere  mine  to  change 
This  weary,  stunted  "  box-tree  "  range 

For  grey  Rouen ! 
With  all  its  picturesque  details, 
The  Seine  with  all  its  tiny  sails, 

And  Saint-Ouen ! 

To  tall  Saint-Maclon  and  the  rest — 
Cathedral,  churches  great  and  blest— 

The  Pale  Pucelle  ! 
Whose  statue  in  the  market  stands. 
Wrought  by  a  royal  Princess's  hands } 

The  Silver  Bell ! 


But  were  it  mine  to  make  the  change, 
And  clothe  this  stunted  box-tree  range 
With  church  and  shrine, 


36o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I  would  not  alter  (as  I  think) 
My  daily  draught  of  wholesome  drink — 
Australian  wine ! 


ANNE  PATCHETT  MARTIN. 

[Daughter  of  the  late  Dr.  Cookesley,  of  London  and  Boulogne-sur- 
Mer ;  born  in  England,  but  educated  in  France.  Lived  three 
years  in  Queensland.  Mrs.  Martin's  command  of  French  is 
that  of  a  cultured  and  highly  educated  native  of  the  countrj', 
and  she  has  for  some  time  been  engaged  on  a  translation  of  the 
entire  works  of  Alfred  de  Musset.  The  following  is  a  sample  of 
one  of  the  minor  poems,  and  is  in  the  metre  of  the  original.] 

SUR  UNE  MORTE. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF    ALFRED    DE    MUSSET. 

Lovely  she  was,  if  midnight  gloom 

Be  lovely  where  the  silent  shade 

Of  Michael  Angelo  hath  made, 
'Neath  vaulted  chapel  roof,  his  tomb. 

Kind  she  might  be,  if  this  the  sign, 
A  careless  alms  to  give  unsought. 
Without  a  single  hallowing  thought 

Of  charity,  or  love  divine. 

She  may  have  thought,  if  -brooks  run  deep, 

Or  if  the  measured  cadence  slow 

Of  accents  ever  calm  and  low 
Could  stir  to  joy  or  make  one  weep. 

She  may  have  prayed,  if  glances  rare 
Of  eyes  awhile  cast  to  the  ground, 
Then  raised  to  heaven  without  a  sound 

Of  thankful  praise,  if  this  be  prayer. 


A  NNE  PATCHETT  MAR  TIN.  36 1 

She  might  have  charmed,  if  such  a  flower, 
That  ne'er  diiruseJ  a  fragrance  kind, 
Could  ever  hope  to  hold  or  bind 

The  fragrant  breeze  in  summer  hour. 

She  might  have  wept,  if  e'er  the  dew 
Of  heaven's  pity  softened  clay, 
As  hard  bound  as  the  heart  that  lay 

'Xeath  folded  hands,  so  coldly  true. 

She  might  have  loved,  but  that  her  heart 
"Was  barren,  save  of  empty  pride 
Which,  like  a  lamp  by  coffin's  side. 

Kept  watch,  and  played  as  vain  a  part. 

She  never  lived,  who  now  is  dead, 

Such  life  was  but  a  bare  pretence, 

Its  book,  to  her  devoid  of  sense, 
Has  fallen  from  her  hands  unread. 


TRANSFORMATION. 

WRITTEN    ON    THE    FLY-LEAP    OF    NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE's 
ROMANCE,   WHICH    SUGGESTED    THE    LINES. 

The  school  breaks  up  :  slim  maidens  in  their  teens 

Are  wild  with  eager  glee 
At  thoughts  of  the  gay  world,  and  ways  and  means 

By  which  they  will  be  free 
To  work  their  wayward  wills,  and  shape  their  fate  3 
Each  maid,  of  course,  in  hope  to  meet  her  mate. 

Helen,  the  beauty  of  the  band,  had  said, 

"  To  see  me  is  a  joy  ! 
I  am  so  tall  and  fair,  with  golden  head, 

Like  my  namesake  of  Troy  ; 


362  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I'll  take  lier  as  my  model — like  her  too, 
Compelling  men  my  charms  and  love  to  rue." 

Then  quiet  Hilda  said,  "  My  cue  I'll  take 

From  that  sweet  one  of  Kome 
Who  did  the  lofty,  lonely  watch-tower  make 

Her  peaceful  maiden  home ; 
Because  to  God  it  seemed  to  bring  her  near : 
So  there  her  doves  she  fed,  with  conscience  clear." 

"  Whence  is  this  myth,  and  from  wliat  classic  page  1 ' 

The  girlish  graduates  cry. 
"  From  that  Romance  which  shines  from  out  our  age 

Like  the  great  sun  on  high," 
Spake  Hilda  with  her  lily-face  aflame  : 
"And  Transformation  is  its  mystic  name." 

But  no  fair  dream,  or  spoken  or  untold, 

Did  these  twain  realise. 
Though  each  on  her  own  altar  laid  the  gold 

And  myrrh  of  sacrifice  ; 
For  Helen's  life  was  spent  in  cloister  cell, 
And  Hilda  loved  unwisely — and  she  fell. 


"ROMOLA. 

Behold  the  scholar-maiden  as  she  stands 
Tall  as  a  lily,  and  as  pale  and  fair — 

Grand-limbed  and  stately,  with  long  slender  hands. 
Nobly-poised  head,  and  rippling  red-gold  hair ; 

Each  curve  of  lip  and  nostril,  cheek  and  chin. 

Telling  of  passion,  pride,  and  power  within. 


ANNE  PATCHETT  MARTIN.  363 

In  her  clear  tones  a  gentle  weariness, 
As  steadfastly  slie  reads  the  classic  page, 

Until  her  sire's  impatient,  blind  distress 
Of  blank  affiiction  she  would  fain  assuage, 

Brings  teud'rest  pity  to  the  noble  face. 

Which  needed  only  such  a  soft'ning  grace. 

Later,  transfigured  by  Love's  lambent  flame, 

That  should  have  glowed  all  through  her  wedded  life  : 

But  paled  to  ashes  in  a  livid  shame 

Of  scorn  and  of  contempt  too  deep  for  strife. — 

Beliefs  so  high  as  hers  break  when  they  fall, 

And  faith  and  trust  abused  brook  no  recall. 

Not  that  he  wronged  her  most,  she  thought  him  worst : 
In  her  great  soul  no  petty  self  had  place — 

But  that  he  was  a  traitor  from  the  first, 
Ingrate  and  false  to  all,  was  the  disgrace. 

Her  large  heart  took  his  base-born  children  in, 

And  deemed  her  peasant  rival  free  from  sin  ! 


DAME  AND  DANSEUSE. 

Half  by  crimson  curtain  hidden, 
Lady  Di  sits  at  the  play, 

"With  the  lover  she  has  bidden 
Come  while  her  old  lord's  away. 

Bare  her  bust  and  snowy  shoulders. 
Her  white  length  of  arm  all  bare  : 

Little  recks  she  that  beholders 
Whisper  as  they  smile  and  stare, 


364  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

How  slie  sold  her  youthful  beauty 
For  the  rank  that  was  her  pride ; 

How  she  forfeited  her  duty 
For  tlie  love  to  rank  denied. 

Scorn  sits  on  her  faultless  features 
As  her  glance  just  sweeps  the  stage, 

And  she  wonders  how  "such  creatures 
Ever  can  become  the  rage  !  " 

While  poor  Dot,  "  Miss  Doris  Dorsay," 
Shows  her  shapely  limbs  in  tights, 

And  with  footsteps  fleet  and  saucy 
Frolics  down  to  the  footlights, 

Smiling  as  she  seems  to  levy 

Tribute  on  her  loveliness, 
Though  her  heart  is  sad  and  heavy 

'Keath  the  burlesque  prince's  dress. 

Her  young  husband  sick  is  lying. 
Fain  would  she  be  by  his  bed : 

She  must  dance  while  he  is  dying, 
For  her  sobs — give  smiles  instead. 

Dancer  Dot  and  Dame  Diana  ! 

"When  Life's  last  awards  ye  reap, 
Which  of  you  shall  sing  Hosanna  1 

Which  shall  smile,  and  which  shall  weep  ? 


ARTHUR  PATCH ETT  MARTIN.  365 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN. 

[Born  near  Woolwich  in  1S5 1,  in  what  was  then  rural  Kent.  Family 
settled  in  Kent  and  Surrey  for  some  time,  but  Scottish  by 
descent  on  both  sides.  On  the  maternal  side  he  claims  kinship 
with  the  once  f.imoua  Francis  Horner,  the  friend  and  colleague 
of  Brougham,  Jeffrey,  and  Sydney  Smith  in  establishing  the 
Edinburgh  Review  ;  through  his  father,  with  the  Elliotts  of  the 
Scottish  Borders.  Entirely  Australian  by  training  and  educa- 
tion, as  he  was  taken  out  to  Melbourne  by  his  parents  when  under 
two  years  of  age,  arriving  at  Christmas  1S52.  Education  chiefly 
at  the  Church  of  England  school  of  St.  Mark's,  Fitzroy,  under 
an  exiled  German  officer  of  rare  ability  named  Leopold  Von 
Stack,  and  at  the  Melbourne  University.  Having  passed  Civil 
Service  and  matriculation  examinations,  entered  Civil  Service 
of  Victoria.  Founded,  in  conjunction  with  Henry  Giles 
Turner,  Arthur  Manning  Topp,  and  others,  The  Mdhourne 
Revieio,  the  first  number  of  which  appeared  in  January  1876  ; 
under  his  editorship  for  six  years  ;  the  most  successful  and  most 
ambitious  of  Australian  periodicals.  Published  from  time  to 
time  Sweet  Girl  Graduate,  a  Christmas  story,  and  an  Easter 
Omelette,  both  of  which  contained  original  poems  ;  in  1878, 
Lays  of  To-day  ;  or,  Verses  in  Jest  and  Earnest  (published  by 
George  Robertsou) ;  in  i^Si,  Fernshawe  :  Sketches  in  Prose  and 
Verse  (George  Robertson,  Melbourne;  republished  in  London 
by  Griffith  &  Farran,  1S85,  and  most  favourably  received  by 
London  and  provincial  press).  Returned,  or  rather  came,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  knowledge,  to  England  in  1S82,  and 
practically  introduced  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  to  the  English 
reader  by  an  article  in  Temple  Bar,  February  1S84,  entitled 
"  An  Australian  Poet."  Married,  18S5,  Harriet  Anne  Bullen, 
widow  of  Lieutenant  Bullen  of  Boulogne-sur-!Mer,  and  daughter 
of  Dr.  Cookesley — the  authoress  of  poems  quoted  on  previous 
pages.] 

ON  AN  EARLY  SONNET. 

"  We  deem  this  life  too  narrow  for  our  needs. 
And  so  demand  Heaven's  ln<ili  felicity  ; 
Yet  of  an  after-life  what  sign  have  we? 
In  vain  man  prays  and  tells  Ids  futile  beads." 


566  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

In  my  wild  youth  I  rashly  penned 
A  Sonnet  of  the  after-life, 
It  was  the  time  of  stress  and  strife 

Through  which  the  ardent  soul  must  wend. 

It  was  the  spring-time  of  my  days, 
Wlien  Doubt,  like  an  inspired  sage, 
With  creeds  did  eager  warfare  wage, 

And  looked  with  scorn  on  ancient  ways. 

But,  peering  back  across  the  years 
That  separate  my  youth  from  me, 
These  words  and  thoughts  now  seem  to  be 

All  dim  as  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

For  then  I  saw  with  fresh  young  eyes 
A  coming  world,  where  joy  would  reign, 
And  evil  pass  away,  and  pain, 

Wlien  man  was  rid  of  priestly  ties. 

But  now,  I  turn  a  hachcard  gaze 
On  visions  fled  and  vanished  hours. 
On  dead  dry  leaves  and  perished  flow'rs 

That  make  the  story  of  my  days. 

And  'midst  that  sad  and  dreary  track 
I  see  the  gravestone  standing  white, 
Far  off,  I  see  it  in  the  night. 

It  says,  "Thy  mother  comes  not  back,' 

We  brought  her  from  the  Southern-land, 
To  this  the  land  that  gave  her  birth ; 
We  laid  her  cold  in  English  earth, 

]\Iy  sire  and  I — and  now  we  stand 


A  R  TH  UR  PA  TCHE  TT  MA  R  TIN.  367 

Like  aliens  on  a  dreary  shore, 

Though  once  we  fondly  called  it  "  Home," 
Now,  old  and  mateless,  he  would  roam 

Back  to  the  Southern-land  once  more. 

For  there  her  spirit  seems  to  be. 

There  lie  her  babes,  beneath  the  sod, 

And  there,  but  for  the  hand  of  God, 
Her  frrand-babes  would  have  climbed  her  knee. 


Those  verses  of  the  heedless  Past, 
They  echo  not  my  saddened  thought ; 
I  held  that  after  death  came  nought, 

The  earth  was  not  then  on  her  cast. 

Denial  now  is  dumb  within, 

Without  I  can  but  grope  my  waj-, 
Nor  tell  if  in  some  brighter  day 

Man's  soul  shall  live,  absolved  of  sin. 


OLD  COMRADES. 

Dear  old  comrades,  gone  for  ever, 
With  your  wealth  of  brilliant  fun, 

All  of  you  so  bright  and  clever, 
How  I  loved  you  every  one  ! 

Here  are  two  remembered  faces, 
In  my  album,  old  and  worn  ; 

As  I  gaze  fond  memory  paces 
Over  life's  bright  early  morn. 


368  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

This  one  with  his  chin  all  hairless, 
That  with  quite  a  Rabbi's  growth ; 

Such  companions,  cheerful,  careless, 
How  I  dearly  loved  them  both  ! 

0  !  those  pleasant  days  long  vanished, 
Passed  away  I  know  not  how  ! 

Like  an  exile  I  am  banished 

To  the  gloomy  land  called  "JSTow." 

Then  with  mirth  our  eyes  would  glisten 
As  the  chimes  at  midnight  rang ; 

Now  I  often  toss,  and  listen 

To  those  chimes  with  many  a  pang. 

"We  were  very  far  from  wealthy. 
Save  in  song  and  fancies  bright ; 

What  cared  we — young,  hopeful,  healthy- 
That  our  2:)urses  might  be  light  ? 

Maidens  then  smiled  sweetly  on  us, 
Kissed  us — what  divinest  bliss  ! 

Is  there  aught  in  wealth  and  honours 
Equal  to  a  woman's  kiss  ? 

On  my  head  the  grey  is  scattered — ■ 
Once  an  auburn  richly  deep — 

And  my  smooth  face  worn  and  battered, 
And  my  friends  gone — I  could  weep. 

Well !  'tis  useless  this  repining. 

Baneful  all  this  weight  of  thought ; 

Now,  as  'tis  the  hour  of  dining, 
Let  me  broach  the  crusted  port. 


ARTHUR  PATCH ETT  MARTIN.  369 

Almost  run  the  weary  race  is, 

Dim  and  dimmer  grows  the  light, 
Close  the  album  with  those  faces, 

Fare  thee  well,  old  friends — Good-night ! 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  REVOLUTIONARY  POET. 

[Leigh  Hunt,  in  an  account  of  his  visit  to  Italy,  where  he  met 
Shelley  for  the  first  time  for  some  years,  describes  the  poet  as 
prematurely  aged  in  appearance,  and  as  being  far  less  confident 
than  formerly  of  the  effect  of  his  revolutionary  doctrines  in 
renovating  the  world.  I  regret  that  I  am  now  unable  to  lay 
my  hand  upon  this  singularly  suggestive  passage,  which  gave 
rise  to  the  following  poem.] 

Standing  alone  upon  this  distant  shore, 

"Where  break  the  white-foamed  billows  on  the  rocks, 

Beneath  the  calm  of  fair  Italian  skies, 

I  see  the  dead  years  of  my  vanished  life 

File  past  in  sad  array,  bearing  aloft 

Utopian  schemes,  like  frail  distorted  imps. 

Are  these  the  dreams  that  filled  my  waking  life, 

When,  as  a  youth,  I  strove  to  stir  the  world — 

Cursing  its  kings  and  priests  with  frenzied  words 

And  with  the  rapture  of  a  prophet's  tone. 

Hailed  the  bright  advent  of  the  coming  day  1 

Has  my  poor  life  been  but  a  player's  mask, 

A  thing  of  emptiness  and  vulgar  show  1 

And  these  my  hopes,  my  vain  delusive  dreams, 

Were  they  but  children  of  a  fierce  self-love  1 

See  how  they  wane,  and  flicker  and  die  out ! 

I  know  by  sad  experience  that  my  strength 

Is  all  unfit  to  stop  the  rolling  world. 

2  A 


370  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

My  hair  is  blanched,  the  lines  are  on  my  face, 

Eut  kings  still  sway  the  nations,  and  sleek  priests 

Repeat  old  fables  to  believing  ears. 

Still  the  base  peasant  drags  his  weary  load 

Unmurmuring  in  the  presence  of  his  lord. 

All  things  remain  unchanged,  save  my  weak  self. 

It  may  be  I  was  wrong,  that  what  I  deemed 

As  foul  obstructions  to  man's  onward  march 

Are  but  as  stones  to  ford  a  rushing  stream. 

The  iron  sway  of  kings,  the  power  of  priests, 

May  help  to  crush  the  brutish  part  in  us 

And  fit  us  for  the  frefer  days  to  come. 

But  can  it  be  that  all  my  hopes  were  vain  ? 

Surely  I  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  Truth, 

And  shaped  it  into  verse  that  cannot  die. 

It  must  be  so.     I  feel  my  faith  revive. 

A  time  shall  come,  though  generations  hence, 

When  men  will  live  the  grander,  freer  life 

That  I  foretold,  and  my  impulsive  verse 

"Will  linger  in  the  minds  of  future  bards. 

Throughout  the  ages  lowly,  toil-worn  men 

Shall  think  of  me  as  of  a  trusty  friend 

Who  sang  their  bitter  woes  in  burning  words. 

My  life  is  ebbing  fast ;  my  task  is  done ; 

And  I  but  wait  upon  this  silent  shore 

Like  one  who  feels  the  solemn  mystery 

Of  fleeting  days,  and  looks  with  earnest  eyes 

While  the  great  world  moves  on,  bearing  its  freight 

Of  dead  and  living  souls,  none  knoweth  where. 


ARTHUR  PATCH ETT  MARTIN.  371 

AN  AGNOSTICS  ANSWER. 

You  boast  of  the  wonders  of  Science,  and  are  waiting  an 

era  when 
Religions  shall  pass  like  the  morning  mists,  and  no  more 

be  seen  of  men. 
The  creed  that  we  held  in  childhood  is  dying,  you  say,  or 

dead ; 
No  more  can  we  pray  with  the  saints,  or  believe  what  the 

prophets  said. 
And  you  wish,  above  all,  that  the  Many — not  the  chosen 

and  cultured  few, 
As  in  former  years,  shall  cease  to  bend  at  the  shrine  of 

the  Blessed  Jew. 
The  fruits  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  should  be  given  to 

all  men  now, 
And  the  ploughman  must  learn  to  doubt  of  God,  as  he 

whistles  beside  his  plough. 
Too  long  have  we  parleyed  with  falsehood,  or  spoken  in 

riddle  and  hint — 
The  battle  is  nigh,  and  our  weapons  are  freedom  of  speech 

and  print. 

0  Friend,  are  we  ripe  for  revolt,  for  this  fre^r  and  god- 
less day  ? 

Is  it  better  that  man  should  doubt,  or  kneel  in  the 
darkness  and  pray  1 

You  answer  "  Yes  ;  "  but  I  falter — I  cannot  for  certain  tell 

If  the  world  would  be  better,  should  all  men  say  there  is 
neither  heaven  nor  hell — 

No  home  that  the  homeless  may  Avait  for,  no  rest  for  the 
weary  head, 

And  no  place  that  the  low-browed  ruffian  may  think  of 
with  terrible  dread. 


372  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Nor  do  I  marvel  that  man,  in  his  anguish,  should  lift  up 

cries, 
And  turn  from  this  poor  uncertain  life  to  a  world  beyond 

the  skies. 
What  is  this  fleeting  life  of  ours,  with  its  burden  of  three- 
score years. 
But  a  tale  of  infinite  sorrow,  a  source  of  manifold  tears  ; 
Where  love  is   consumed  in  passion,  and  passion  may 

change  to  hate  ; 
Where  the  vilest  too  often  is  honoured,  and  the  basest  is 

called  the  great ; 
And  where,  should  there  chance  to   be   one  noble  and 

faithful  soul, 
It  soon  runneth  its  little  course,  if  the  grave  be  its  final 

goal ! 
I  marvel  not,   in  a  world  like  this,  at  man's  tenacious 

grasp 
Of  tales  divine,  re-told  by  men  whom  Christ's  dear  hands 

did  clasp. 
You  will  say,  we  must  battle  for  Truth  ;  but  what,  may  I 

ask,  is  Truth  1 
To  me  she  wears  not  the  face  I  thought  was  hers  in  my 

youth ; 
And  this  I  know,  though  the  saying  may  sound  in  your 

ears  as  odd. 
There  is  many  a  blatant  bigot  who  scorns  to  believe  in  a 

God. 
I  know  you  will  judge  me  harshly,  as  one  who  stands 

idly  by, 
While  his  fellows  are  rushing  onward  to  vanquish  the  foe 

or  die. 
I  cannot  but  think  you  wrong  me — I  am  all  unfit  for  the 

strife. 
Not  believing,  like  you,  I  have  mastered  the  uttermost 

problems  of  life. 


ARTHUR  PATCHBTT  MARTIN.  ^7^ 

I  know  that  our  creeds  spring  from  fable,  I  know  they 

have  palpable  flaws ; 
l]ut  are  they  not,  as  are  all  things   else,  resultants  of 

nature's  laws  ? 
They,  too,  must  have  served  a  purpose,  have  answered 

some  human  needs  ; 
Besides,  could  imperfect  creatures  be  nurtured  on  perfect 

creeds  1 
And  often  I  ask,  Am  I  happier  now,  am  I  freer  from  strife 

and  care. 
Than  when  I  bended  my  childish  knees,  and  prattled  a 

childish  prayer? 
Is  it  any  solace  to  me  to  have  found  that  m^'  prayers  were 

in  vain  1 
Or  are  there  not  times  when  I  wish  I  could  pray  as  of  old 

again  ? 
Yet  smile  not,  I  know  full  well  that  this  is  a  futile  plaint ; 
As  clearly  as  you,  do  I  see  the  delusions  of  prophet  and 

saint ; 
But  I  cannot,  with  these  misgivings,  these  doubts  that 

you  never  feel. 
Go  forth  by  your  side  to  destroy  the  shrine  where  I  used 

to  kneel. 


THE  WITHERED  JESTER. 

A   DREAM. 

The  night  was  drear,  the  angry  wind  blew  keen. 
And  sent  the  scattered  clouds  across  the  sky ; 
The  moon's  dim  light  and  the  few  straggling  stars 
Served  but  to  show  the  blackness  all  around. 
The  streets  were  empty  of  their  usual  crowds — 
I  seemed  in  that  vast  city  all  alone, 


374  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  wandered  forth,  full  of  despairing  tlaoughts ; 

For  she  that  I  had  deemed  so  wondrous  fair, 

So  worthy  to  be  worshipped  all  my  days, 

Had  shown  herself  a  petty,  small-souled  thing ; 

What  matters  how  1     I  wandered  wildly  on 

Till,  on  a  distant  hill,  I  reached  an  inn. 

The  door  was  open,  and  a  flickering  light 

Showed  a  cold,  cheerless  room,  with  low,  hare  walls ; 

The  light  was  from  the  embers  in  the  grate, 

And  left  the  room  half  black.     There  I  espied 

A  grey  and  withered  man  by  that  lone  hearth, 

Who,  as  I  entered,  gravely  rose  and  bowed. 

I  looked  at  him,  and  on  my  startled  ear 

The  sound  of  hollow  laughter  harshly  struck  ; 

Then  that  grey,  withered  man  said,  "  Welcome  here ; 

This  is  the  resting-place  of  broken  hopes. 

Thy  face  is  like  an  open  book ;  so  young 

Thou  art,  and  yet  so  sad. — Some  woman's  work." 

Again  his  laughter  echoed  through  the  room ; 

Then,  gliding  softly  to  my  side,  he  spake — 

"  Be  merry,  man,  and  let  her  freely  go  ! 

'Tis  better  she  should  wed  some  other  fool — 

The  altar  only  turns  men's  love  to  hate ; 

So  let  her  freely  go  ! "     He  gazed  at  me, 

Till  I  cried  out,  "  How  can  you  speak  of  Love, 

Who  never  knew  Love's  witchery  and  might  1 " 

He  laughed,  and  said,  "Ho  !  not  so  fast,  my  guest — 

I  too  have  loved,  but  have  forgot  their  names ; " 

And  then  it  seemed  he  placed  a  hand  in  mine, 

Saying,  "  We're  comrades  :  listen  to  my  tale. 

I  have  not  always  been  a  withered  wretch 

In  this  dull  house ;  I,  too,  have  lived  and  loved, 

And  have  had  fulsome  flatterers,  miscalled  friends, 

Who  left  me  when  their  friendsliip  was  of  use. 

I  have  sat  up  o'  nights  in  lighted  rooms. 


ARTHUR  PATCH ETT  MARTIN.  37; 

And  played  the  jester  at  the  festive  board." 

I  smiled  to  liear  that  grey  and  withered  man 

Speak  of  his  past  life  as  a  merry  one ; 

Whereat  he  frowned,  and  forthwith  ceased  his  tale, 

And  chanted,  in  discordant  tones,  this  song : — 

The  Jester's  Gibe. 

I  have  met  with  men  who  mix 

In  the  highest  social  set, 
Boors  at  heart,  with  just  the  tricks 

Of  a  shallow  etiquette. 

I  have  met  the  kindly  rich. 

And  the  envious,  hateful  poor  ; 
Men  I've  known  in  Fame's  bright  niche 

Far  less  proud  than  the  obscure. 

Many  men  there  are,  who  join 

In  the  Church's  prayers  and  psalms, 

Who  will  give  their  hoarded  coin 
For  a  painted  woman's  charms. 

There  are  learned  men,  I  ween. 

Sitting  on  the  judge's  bench, 
Who,  when  thinking  they're  unseen, 

Toy  with  any  buxom  wench. 

You,  0  smooth  face  !  you  can  tell 

Of  a  woman's  love,  may  be  ; 
Does  she  love  you  half  as  well 

As  the  lap-dog  on  her  knee  ] 

I  have  known — and  found  them  dull — 

Men  of  philosophic  views, 
And  would  rather  have  the  fool 

As  companion,  could  I  choose. 


376  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Start  not,  if  I  raise  the  veil ; 

You  are  right,  I  am  uncouth. 
"Well !  I'll  cease  to  jeer  and  rail 

If  you  own  I  speak  the  truth. 

Truth  !  why,  what  does  that  denote 
In  a  world  where  all's  a  sham  1 

E'en  despite  my  motley  coat, 
Who  can  tell  how  sad  I  am  ? 

Here   the   chant   ceased.      The   place  seemed   strangely 

changed. 
I  started  up :  the  withered  man  had  gone. 
While  round  my  neck  I  felt  encircling  arms, 
And  on  my  fevered  brow  sweet  kisses  fell. 
"  My  love,  my  life  !  I  care  not  what  they  say  : 
I  will  be  true."     The  sun  shone  bravely  out, 
Flooding  the  room  with  warm  and  rosy  light, — 
I  had  but  slept  five  minutes  in  my  chair. 


LOVE  AND  WAR. 

The  Chancellor  mused  as  he  nibbled  his  pen 
(Sure  no  Minister  ever  looked  wiser). 

And  said,  "I  can  summon  a  million  of  men 
To  fight  for  their  country  and  Kaiser ; 

While  that  shallow  charlatan  ruling  o'er  France, 
Who  deems  himself  deeper  than  Merlin, 

Thinks  he  and  his  soldiers  have  only  to  dance 
To  the  tune  of  the  Can-can  to  Berlin. 

But  as  soon  as  he  gets  to  the  bank  of  the  Rhine, 
He'll  be  met  by  the  great  German  army." 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN.  377 

Then  the  Chancellor  laugheJ,  and  he  said,  "I  will  dine, 
For  I  see  nothing  much  to  alarm  me." 

Yet  still  as  he  went  out  he  paused  by  the  door 
(For  his  mind  was  in  truth  heavy  laden), 

And  he  saw  a  stout  fellow,  equipped  for  the  war. 
Embracing  a  fair-haired  young  maiden. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  said  the  Chancellor,  "  This  will  not  do, 

For  Mars  to  be  toying  with  Venus, 
When  these  Frenchmen  are  coming — a  rascally  crew  ! — 

And  the  Rhine  only  flowing  between  us." 

So  the  wary  old  fox,  just  in  order  to  hear, 

Strode  one  or  two  huge  paces  nearer ; 
And  he  heard  the  youth  say,   "  More  than  life  art  thou 
dear ; 

But,  0  loved  one,  the  Fatherland's  dearer." 

Then  the  maid  dried  her  tears  and  looked  up  in  his  eyes, 
And  she  said,  "  Thou  of  loving  art  worthy  : 

When  all  are  in  danger  no  brave  man  e'er  flies, 
And  thy  love  should  spur  on — not  deter  thee." 

The  Chancellor  took  a  cigar,  which  he  lit, 

And  he  muttered,  "Here's  naught  to  alarm  me ; 

By  Heaven  !  I  swear  they  are  both  of  them  fit 
To  march  with  the  great  German  army." 


SUCFI  IS  LIFE. 

AVe  meet  how  many  curious  folks 

Upon  life's  strangely  chequered  ways — • 

Some  dignified,  some  fond  of  jokes, 

And,  more  or  less,  all  fond  of  praise  ; — 


378  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

A  few  who  climb  the  mountain's  height, 
While  many  love  the  peaceful  valley ; 

And  some  in  heavenly  dreams  delight, 
And  others  much  prefer  the  ballet. 

Perchance  we  meet  a  youth  who  sings 
Of  some  fair  maiden's  peerless  charms, 

While  others  dote  on  higher  things — 
On  philosophic  truths,  or  psalms. 

One  takes  unto  himself  a  wife. 

And  perpetrates  a  lowly  marriage  ; 

Another  clings  to  single  life, 

The  club,  an  opera-box,  and  carriage. 

To  some  there  dwells  the  sweetest  bliss 
Beneath  the  pure  domestic  roof, 

While  others  feel  they'd  rather  kiss 
A  reigning  queen  of  opera-bouffe. 

The  worldly-wise  employ  their  hours 
In  various  ways  for  filthy  lucre, 

While  poets  pipe  in  fairy  bowers, 
Or  play  in  hostelries  at  euchre. 

Lut  this  is  true  of  every  one — 

Howe'er  he  pass  his  brief  existence, 

Whatever  thing  he  seek  or  shun, 
He  takes  the  line  of  least  resistance. 


A  FOREBODING. 

Down  the  stream  as  we  gaily  glide, 
Carried  along  with  its  restless  tide. 
Dost  ever  think,  my  bonny  young  bride, 
Of  the  harbour  whither  we're  drif tin'^  1 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN.  379 

Light  is  the  heart  at  twenty  years, 
]\Iany  the  smiles  and  few  the  tears ; 
But,  at  times,  I  am  filled  with  anxious  fears 
Of  the  harbour  whither  we're  drifting. 

The  little  prattler  beside  my  knee 
Oft  whispers,  in  artless  words,  to  me. 
Of  tempests  wild  and  a  stormy  sea. 

Ere  the  harbour's  gained  where  we're  drifting. 

And  I  think  when  I  hear  that  childish  tone, 
Shall  we  pass  by,  in  tears,  a  small  gravestone — 
Shall  the  little  voyager  find  alone 
The  harbour  whither  we're  drifting  1 


DBA  TH. 

I  FEAR  not  Death,  the  grim  and  ghastly  shade. 

He  steals  this  way,  the  sexton  plies  his  spade, 

Throws  up  the  earth,  and  clearly  I  can  trace 

The  worms  that  will  ere  long  crawl  o'er  my  face, 

And  dwell  within  the  chamber  of  my  brain. 

Why  should  I  care,  who  then  will  feel  no  pain  1 

I  see  the  mound  that  will  be  rudely  prest 

In  spadefuls  on  my  cold,  insensate  breast ; 

While  all  around  my  dead-mates  calmly  lie, 

No  sound  of  strife  is  heard,  no  tear,  no  sigh. 

All  is  quite  still,  save  that  unmannered  knave 

Who  whistles  gaily  as  he  digs  my  grave. 

I  too  am  calm — Why  should  I  idly  weep 

At  the  cold  thought  of  endless,  tranquil  sleep  ? 

The  world  grows  dim.     Where  is  my  narrow  cell  ? 

Is  this  the  brink  1     Good-night,  sweet  friends,  farewell ! 


38o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


THE  STORM. 


Ay,  not  a  doubt,  'twas  dark  without, 

Dark  and  drear,  and  bitterly  cold ; 

But  we,  within  that  quaint  old  inn, 

Were  out  of  the  blast  like  sheep  in  the  fold. 

There  sat  we,  old  comrades  three, 

Telling  our  stories  and  singing  our  staves ; 

Little  we  recked  that  the  sky  was  flecked 

With  the  lightning's  fury — light-hearted  knaves  ! 

It  was  not  far  to  the  harbour  bar, 

Where  groaned  in  anguish  a  noble  ship, 

And  a  lady  there,  of  beauty  rare, 

Gazed  into  the  blackness  with  quivering  lip. 

In  sight  of  the  town  the  ship  went  down  — 

Went  down,  though  they  lifted  up  praying  hands, 

And  at  break  of  day  all  stark  they  lay. 

Those  storm-tossed  ones,  on  the  glittering  sands. 

While  there  sat  we,  old  comrades  three. 
Till  one,  with  the  love-light  fresh  in  his  eyes, 
Sang,  "  The  morning  breaks,  and  each  bird  wakes, 
And  to-day  my  bird  to  my  bosom  flies." 
But  the  townsmen  pale  spake  of  wreck  and  gale. 
As  we  sauntered  out  of  the  tavern-door. 
And  the  ebbing  tide  showed  his  fair  young  bride, 
And  he  swooned  on  her  breast  by  the  hard,  bleak 
shore. 


Ilohart. 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN.  381 


THE  CYNIC  OF  THE  WOODS. 

Come  from  busy  haunts  of  men, 

With  nature  to  commune, 
Which  you,  it  seems,  observe,  and  tlien 

Laugh  out,  like  some  buffoon. 

You  cease,  and  through  the  forest  drear 

I  pace,  with  sense  of  awe ; 
When  once  again  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 

'I  look  aloft  to  yonder  place. 

Where  placidly  you  sit, 
And  tell  you  to  your  very  face, 

I  do  not  like  your  wit. 

I'm  in  no  mood  for  blatant  jest, 

I  hate  your  mocking  song. 
My  weary  soul  demands  the  rest 

Denied  to  it  so  long. 

Besides,  there  passes  through  my  braiu 

The  poet's  love  of  fame — 
Wliy  should  not  an  Australian  strain 

Immortalise  my  name  ? 

And  so  I  pace  the  forest  drear, 

Filled  with  a  sense  of  awe, 
When  louder  still  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  gulUiw. 

Yet  truly.  Jackass,  it  may  be, 

My  words  are  all  unjust : 
You  laugh  at  what  you  hear  and  see, 

And  laugh  because  you  must. 


382  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Yoii've  seen  Man  civilised  and  rude, 

Of  varying  race  and  creed, 
The  black-skinned  savage  almost  nude, 

The  Englishman  in  tweed. 

And  here  the  lubra  oft  has  strayed, 

To  rest  beneath  the  boughs, 
Where  now,  perchance,  some  fair-haired  maid 

May  hear  her  lover's  vows. 

While  you  from  yonder  lofty  height 

Have  studied  human  ways, 
And  with  a  satirist's  deliglit, 

Dissected  hidden  traits. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on  !     Your  rapturous  shout 

Again  on  me  intrudes ; 
But  I  have  found  your  secret  out, 

0  cynic  of  the  woods. 

Well !  I  confess,  grim  mocking  elf, 

Howe'er  I  rhapsodise. 
That  I  am  more  in  love  with  self 

Than  with  the  earth  or  skies. 

So  I  will  lay  the  epic  by, 

That  I  had  just  begun  ; 
Why  should  I  scribble  ?     Let  me  lie 

And  bask  here  in  the  sun. 

And  let  me  own,  were  I  endowed 
AVith  your  fine  humorous  sense, 

I,  too,  should  laugh — ay,  quite  as  loud. 
At  all  Man's  vain  pretence. 
FcrnsJiawe,  Victoria. 


JAMES  L.  MICHAEL.  383 

JAMES  L.  IMICHAEL. 

[Was  a  solicitor.  Published  Songs  without  Music  (Sydney  :  Cox  and 
Co.) ;  John  Cumberland :  a  Poem  (Sydney :  J.  R.  Clarke  &  Co.), 
and  other  volumes.  According  to  Kendal],  the  most  brilliant 
conversationalist  of  his  time  in  New  South  Wales.  He  will  be 
honoured  for  his  kindly  patronage  of  Kendall  while  a  clerk  in 
his  officb  on  the  Clarence  River.  In  fact,  Kendall  may  almost 
be  called  his  literary  son,  for  he  was  lent  stimulating  books 
and  instructed  by  Michael,  and  adopted  some  of  his  metres.] 

FROM  "JOHN  CUMBERLAND." 

I  CHOSE  not  ill — a  quiet  nook, 

Just  in  a  sharp  turn  of  the  river, 
"Where  a  great  willow  bent  and  shook 

Her  tresses  o'er  the  eddy's  shiver. 
The  river  came  down  like  a  V, 

So  tliat  I  used  to  lie  and  dream 
Right  in  the  fork,  where  I  could  see 

Up  both  the  branches  of  the  stream ; 
Could  watch  the  heavy  barges  pass, 

The  red  sails  flaming  in  the  sun. 
And  put  my  face  into  the  grass, 

And  dream  away  till  day  was  done. 
By  me  the  gentle  waters  swept 

In  the  still  majesty  of  power, 
And  the  small  silent  ripple  crept 

Among  the  reed-banks  of  my  bower ; 
And  the  bush  foliage  of  the  shore 

Made  pictures  where  the  waters  rolled 
Till  a  light  breeze  came  dancing  o'er, 

And  broke  them  into  green  and  gold ; 
And  fragrances  came  sweeping  by 

From  the  wide  clover-fields  behind, 
And  the  wild  skylark,  up  on  high. 

Flung  out  his  music  on  the  wind. 


384  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I  knew  the  shadows  of  the  morn, 

I  knew  the  shallow  sandy  bar, 
I  watched  the  waves  upon  the  corn, 

I  watched  the  ripple  gleam  afar, 
I  watched  the  heron  plume  his  wing 

In  the  long  rushes  coarse  and  rank, 
And  heard  the  sedge-bird  sit  and  sing 

All  day  and  night  upon  the  bank  : 
Till  all  about  my  heart  there  wound 

The  gentle  sentiment  of  rest, 
As  I  looked  out  on  peace,  and  found 

That  God  made  all  things  to  be  blest 
The  living  sunshine  was  delight. 

On  living  stream,  and  living  tree ; 
All  life  that  glittered  on  my  sight 

Eolled  in  embodied  harmony. 


When  scattered  to  its  pristine  dust. 

How  should  the  body  rise  again  ? 
What  was  the  semblance  of  the  just? 

What  of  the  angel  of  the  rain  ? 
Whence  came  the  fingers  of  the  hand 

That  wrote  upon  the  palace  wall  ? 
What  was  the  tree  of  life,  to  stand 

In  Paradise  before  the  fall  1 


FROM  ''JOHN  CUMBERLAND." 

There  are  times  one  cannot  sleep, 

Times  when  the  blood  is  astir, 
Though  the  night  be  calm  and  deep, 
And  the  rustling  branches  keep 


JAMES  L.  MICHAEL.  ^S: 

A  steady  swing,  in  their  sweep, 

And  the  starbeam  sleeps  on  the  fir, 
And  the  hour  of  rest  is  come, 

And  the  face  of  Nature  lies 
"Wrapped  in  a  silence  dumb, 

Dumb  under  the  starlit  skies ; 
When  the  soul  is  awake 
And  will  not  take 

Its  rest  in  the  midnight  hour ; 
"N^'hen  the  flashes  of  Fancy  shake 
'J  he  secrets  of  life,  and  make 

The  heart  confess  her  power ; 
"When  the  stir  of  vague  unrest. 

Fitful  and  wilful  and  wild, 
Wakes  up  a  storm  in  the  breast, 

And  the  soul  like  a  wayward  child, 
That  will  not  sleep 

For  the  lullaby  song, 
That  will  not  sleep 
The  whole  night  long, 
Tosses,  and  tumbles,  and  burns, 

Startled,  and  eager,  and  flushed. 
Fearing  and  hoping  by  turns, 

While  all  around  it  is  hushed  ; 
Rises  and  looks  out  and  pants, 

Looks  for  a  signal,  a  token. 
Flaming  with  infinite  wants. 

Wants  that  can  never  be  spoken  ; 
Cries  to  the  deep  ear  of  night. 
Looks  for  a  formless  delight ; 
Cries  to  the  cold  ear  of  night. 

Passionless,  solemn,  unbroken. 
Surging  and  seething  in  vain. 

Looking  for  something  unknown, 


2  B 


386  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Ignoraiit  whence  comes  its  pain, 
Standing  in  darkness  alone, 
Sighs  to  be  blest, 
Finding  no  rest, 

No  voice  that  answers  its  own. 


FROM  ''JOHN  CUMBERLAND." 

Through  pleasant  paths,  through  dainty  ways. 

Love  leads  my  feet ; 
Where  beauty  shines  with  living  rays, 

Soft,  gentle,  sweet : 
The  placid  heart  at  random  strays, 
And  sings  and  smiles,  and  laughs  and  plays, 
And  gathers  from  the  summer  days 

Their  light  and  heat, 
That  in  its  chambers  burn  and  blaze 

And  beam  and  beat. 
The  wind  tbat  whispers  in  the  night, 

Subtle  and  free, 
The  gorgeous  noonday's  blinding  light, 

On  hill  and  tree ; 
All  lovely  things  that  meet  my  sight 
All  shifting  lovelinesses  bright, 
Speak  to  my  heart  with  calm  delight, 

Seeming  to  be 
Clothed  with  enchantment,  robed  in  white. 

To  sing  of  thee. 


JAMES  L.  MICHAEL.  387 


FROM  ''JOHN  CUMBERLAND." 

The  little  little  bird  peeps  out  of  her  nest 
At  the  first  faint  sparkle  in  the  east, 
Leaps  out  to  meet  the  daylight  with  a  flutter  in  her  breast, 
Breaks  in  music,  tender  music,  breaks  in  music  from  her 
rest, 
At  the  first  faint  S2'>'irkle  in  the  east. 

The  willing  willing  heart  wakes  up  from  its  calm, 
At  the  first  faint  whisper  of  Love's  song, 
"Wakes  up  to  meet  the  passion  with  a  flutter  and  a  qualm. 
All  its  voices  multitudinously  echoing  the  psalm, 
The  first  faint  whisper  of  Love's  song. 

The  weary  weary  bird  flies  back  to  her  sleep, 
As  the  long  day  dies  behind  the  leaves  ; 
The  day  of  love,  too,  passes,  and  the  dews  of  evening  weep. 
But  the  ancient  quiet  slumber  comes  no  more  to  passion 
deep. 
As  the  long  day  dies  behind  the  leavea 


i^ROM  ''JOHN  CUMBERLAND." 

The  moon  is  in  the  sky,  dear, 

The  stars  are  bright  and  keen ; 
The  fainting  breezes,  die,  dear. 

The  tender  boughs  between. 
The  little  streamlet  yonder 

Gleams  like  a  silver  line  : 
Come  out,  come  out,  and  wander — 

Under  the  moonbeams'  shine. 


388  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  May-flower  clothes  the  hedge,  dear, 

"With  a  rich  robe  of  white ; 
The  sedge-bird  in  the  sedge,  dear, 

Is  singing  all  the  night ; 
The  nightingale  out  yonder 

Is  singing  songs  divine  : 
Gome  out,  come  out,  and  wander — 

Under  the  moonbeams'  shine. 

It  is  the  time  of  love,  dear, 

Under  the  soft  May  moon, 
That  listens  from  above,  dear. 

To  hear  the  song-birds'  tune  : 
The  scene  invites  us  yonder  ; 

0  !  chosen  love  of  mine, 
Come  out,  come  out,  and  wander — ■ 

Under  the  moonbeams'  shine. 


J.  SHEEIDAN  MOORE. 

[Author  of  Spring  Songs,  Lyrics  and  Australian  Melodies  (Sydney  : 
Cole).  The  poem  quoted  is  a  song  set  to  music  by  Mr.  W.  J. 
]MacDougall.] 

THE  BEAUTY  THAT  BLOOMS  IN  AUSTRALIA. 

Rich  as  the  rose-light  which  dapples  the  dawn, 

And  soft  as  the  shadows  of  eve ; 
Tender  and  true  as  the  midnight  blue — 

Too  tender  and  true  to  deceive — 
Is  the  beauty  that  blooms  in  Australia  ! 
Is  the  beauty  that  glows  in  Australia ! 
Is  the  beauty  we  prize  in  Australia ! 


AGNES  NEALE.  3S9 

Shy  as  the  lyre-bird  liidden  away, 

A  glittering  waif  in  the  wild, 
Coy  as  the  flowers  in  Nature's  own  bowers, 

But  fresh  as  a  golden-haired  child, 
Is  the  love  that  peeps  out  in  Australia  ! 
Is  the  love  that  allures  in  Aiistralia ! 
Is  the  love  we  pursue  in  Australia  ! 

And  0,  when  that  beauty,  so  soft  and  so  bright, 

Doth  gladden  our  hearts  with  its  smile  ; 

And  0,  when  that  Love,  like  a  breeze  in  the  light, 

Glides  out  of  its  silence  the  while, 
Joy  beams  like  the  moon  in  Australia  ! 
We  thrill  with  delight  in  Australia  ! 
Life  resteth  complete  in  Australia  ! 


AGNES  NEALE. 

[(Miss)  Cai-oline  Agnes  Leane.  A  South  Australian  poetess.  Has 
contributed  many  pieces  of  great  beauty  to  the  Australian  press, 
though  she  has  published  no  volume.] 

GOOD-NIGHT! 

Good-night!  good-night!  the  summer  day  is  dying. 
From  the  dim  east  the  long  grey  shadows  creep ; 

The  breezes  whisper  low  among  the  tree-tops. 
In  the  long  grass  the  flowers  have  gone  to  sleep. 

Good-night !  good-night !  the  sky  is  gold  and  crimson, 

A  royal  couch  for  the  fair  dying  day ; 
Its  fringes  sweep  the  earth  in  rainbow  glory, 

And  tinge  with  light  the  tall  hills  far  away. 


390  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Good-night !  good-night !     The  evening  star  is  lying 

A  liquid  diamond  on  the  field  of  night, 
Melting  and  flashing  in  the  rosy  splendour, 

Trembling  like  dew-drops  tremble  in  the  light. 

Good-night !  good-night !     The  stars  are  out  in  myriads, 
White  points  of  light  along  the  wide  black  sky ; 

The  earth  is  wrapped  in  darkness  as  a  mantle, 

And  sad  and  slow  the  whispering  winds  sweep  bj^ 

Good-night !  good-night !    The  morn  that  wakes  to-morrow 
May  dawn  upon  a  brighter  world  than  this, 

May  shine  upon  a  land  that  knows  no  night-time, — 
Bend  down,  and  give  me,  love,  your  good-niglit  kiss ; 

One  kiss  before  I  close  my  eyes  in  slumber, 
Tired  eyes,  already  longing  for  the  light ; 

Perhaps — who  knows  1 — my  dreams  may  be  the  brighter, 
Soj  one  last  kiss  !     Good-night,  my  love,  good-night ! 


/  DID  NOT  KNOW  THAT  SPRING  HAD  COME. 

I  DID  not  know  that  spring  had  come, 
I  did  not  know  the  hills  were  green ; 

I  did  not  know  the  sun's  warm  smile 
Lay  on  the  grass  in  golden  sheen. 

But  now  I  see  the  sky  is  blue, 

The  fresh  spring  grass  is  thick  and  soft, 

And  through  the  slender  she-oak  leaves 
The  winds  are  sighing  high  aloft. 

The  air  is  balmy,  warm,  and  mild, 

And  faint  sweet  wafts  of  perfume  pass, 


AGNES  NEALE.  391 

lireathed  from  the  shower  of  p^oklen  balls, 
Thick  carpeting  the  emerald  grass. 

Far  up  in  yon  green  dome  of  leaves 
The  magpies  warble  loud  and  sweet ; 

With  every  breath  that  shakes  the  trees 
A  golden  rain  falls  at  my  feet. 

O  clear  blue  skies,  0  emerald  earth, 

O  golden  balls  of  wattle-bloom 
Falling  around  so  silently, 

How  well  I  love  your  faint  perfume  ! 

IIow  well  I  love  to  hear  those  notes 
Poured  forth  with  such  glad  ecstasy  ! 

My  heart  responds  to  every  burst 
Of  rich  full-throated  melody. 

O  song  of  bird,  0  sky  and  earth, 

O  golden  balls  of  wattle-bloom, 
Ye  will  be  beautiful  as  iiow 

When  I  am  silent  in  the  tomb. 

And  I  should  like,  when  I  am  laid 
Within  the  soft  warm  earth  at  rest, 

To  know  the  magpies  warble  near, 

And  wattle-bloom  showers  on  my  breast. 


GOD  KNOWS. 

LovB,  I  have  something  brought  to  you  to-night, 
Some  thought  of  consolation  for  the  past ; 

A  ray  of  golden  glory,  charged  with  light, 
A  flask  of  oil  on  life's  rou^h  waters  cast. 


392  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Nay,  turn  not  from  me  with  those  mournful  eyes ; 

Nay,  never  let  your  tears  fall  down  like  rain ; 
Believe  me,  love,  the  sun  is  in  the  skies, 

His  glory  some  day  will  appear  again. 

I  saw  a  sunrise,  fair,  and  sweet,  and  calm. 

The  blue  sky  blushed  from  palest  rose  to  red ; 

The  morning  breezes  blew  like  living  balm, 

Rich  stores  of  health  from  their  soft  wings  were  shod. 

I  saw  a  gorgeous  sunset.     Yellow  gold 

And  flaming  crimson  in  rich  contrast  lay — • 

Banners  of  splendour,  lying  fold  on  fold  ; 

I  watched  them  burn  and  blaze  and  die  away — 

Away  into  the  twilight  cool  and  soft, 

That  fell  like  peace  on  some  tired  human  heart ; 

And  then,  from  yon  bright  arch  outspread  aloft, 
I  watched  the  stars,  celestial  dew-drops,  start. 

I  saw  the  moonlight  stream  along  the  hill, 
And  flood  with  yellow  glory  all  the  plain. 

When  every  breath  of  wind  fell  calm  and  still, 
Not  even  rustling  through  the  fields  of  grain. 

I  saw  a  flower  lift  up  its  gentle  head, 

A  sweet  wee  flower,  first  messenger  of  spring ; 

A  tender  loveliness,  a  saintly  grace. 

Around  that  fragile  blossom  seemed  to  cling. 

And  I  bent  down  to  hear  the  words  it  said. 

For  well  I  knew  some  word  should  come  to  me ; 

For  all  the  earth,  with  beauty  garlanded. 
Is  but  a  lesson-book  for  you  and  me. 


AGNES  NEALE.  393 

I  heard  the  -word,  I  learned  the  lesson  well, 

From  dawn  and  sunset,  moonlight  and  fair  flower ; 

And  then  I  sought  you,  love,  that  I  might  tell 

The  blessed  thought  that  reached  me  in  that  hour. 

Love,  though  our  skies  are  dark  and  light  is  gone, 
Though  faded  lies  our  summer's  latest  rose ; 

Yet,  though  we  seem  so,  we  are  not  alone  ; 

A  thought  has  touched  our  thought,  for,  love,  "God 
knows ! " 

A  care  that  we  can  never  comprehend 

Lies  round  about  our  footstep,  like  the  light ; 

Love  that  has  no  beginning  and  no  end 

Walks  close  beside  us  through  life's  darkest  night. 

Look  up,  dear  love,  the  sun  will  shine  again  ! 

God  knows  the  clouds  that  press  in  heavy  folds  ; 
He  feels  with  us  each  poisoned  sting  of  pain. 

And  weighs  the  anguish  that  each  moment  holds. 

Look  up,  dear  love,  God  counts  the  tears  that  fall. 

"  God  knows  ! " — will  He  not  wipe  away  those  tears  ? 
God  knows  how  painfully  our  burdens  gall ; 

"  God  knows  ! "  so  we  may  lay  aside  our  fears, 

"God  knows  ! "  and  some  time  He  will  gently  bend 

From  that  fair  land  of  light  where  angels  dwell. 
And  His  sweet  messenger  of  love  shall  send 
To  whisper  to  our  soul  that  all  is  well ! 

All  will  be  well  when  we  have  reached  that  land 
AVhere  the  bright  stream  of  life  eternal  flows  ; 

When  on  the  golden  streets  we  two  shall  stand, 

Glad,  with  a  boundless  gladness,  that  "God  knows  !" 


394  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

IN  THE  MIDNIGHT. 

I  LAY  in  the  gloom  of  the  midnight, 
There  was  darkness  behind  and  before  ; 

And  I  felt  as  if  thrust  in  a  dungeon — 
A  dungeon  with  never  a  door. 

There  was  pain  in  the  past  that  had  left  me, 
There  was  pain  in  the  time  that  should  be ; 

And  the  worst  of  all  pain  was  the  present, 
The  moment  the  point  I  could  see. 

I  felt  not  the  pain  of  the  future, 

And  the  pain  of  the  past  it  was  past ; 

But  the  pain  that  each  moment  I  lived  in 
Was  the  pain  that  for  ever  would  last. 

0  !  where  was  the  use  of  our  fighting, 
And  where  was  the  use  of  our  strength, 

If  the  struggle  and  strength  were  but  weakness. 
And  we  must  be  vanquished  at  length  1 

So  I  yielded,  o'erwrought  by  my  anguish, 

I  felt  I  could  struggle  no  more ', 
Though  the  hopes,  it  may  be,  of  a  lifetime, 

And  its  beauty  and  glory,  were  o'er. 

And  I  thought  that  all  hope  was  abandoned. 
And  that  I  was  but  doomed  to  despair ; 

And  I  would  not  look  out  on  the  future, 
For  nothing  of  promise  lay  there. 

But  all  in  a  moment  flashed  round  me 

A  blaze  of  ineffable  love. 
And  there  burst  on  my  eyesight  a  vision — 

A  vision  of  lifrht  from  above. 


AGNES  NEALE.  395 

And  I  saw  through  the  past  and  the  future, 

I  read  all  the  secrets  of  pain  j 
And  I  saw  what  to  me  had  seemed  losing 

Was  a  wealth  of  unspeakable  gain. 

For  the  secret  of  pain  was  but  mercy, 
And  love  was  the  hand  that  opprest ; 

And  pain  was  but  one  of  God's  angels, 
To  guide  where  our  souls  might  find  rest. 

And  I  saw  all  the  mystery  of  living, 

The  deep  things  unuttered  of  God ; 
And  marvels  of  beauty  were  shown  me, 

Where  I  had  unthinkingly  trod. 

And  I  knew  why  we  love  and  we  suffer, 
I  saw  through  what  white  lakes  of  fire 

The  souls  of  some  mortals  must  tremble 
Before  they  are  fit  for  the  higher. 

And  the  secret  of  living  Avas  loving, 

And  loving  must  ever  be  pain, 
Till  He,  by  whose  word  came  our  being. 

Shall  summon  that  being  again. 

So  I  lay  there  quite  still  on  my  pillow, 
In  the  weakness  of  pain  that  has  fled ; 

And  in  spite — ay,  in  spite  of  my  sorrow, 
I  would  live  my  life  over,  I  said. 

For  it  surely  was  worth  all  the  suffering 

To  taste  of  that  exquisite  bliss — 
Ay,  it  surely  was  worth  even  dying 

To  be  kissed  with  life's  beautiful  kiss ; 


396  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

To  know  myself  born  for  a  future, 
With  God  for  its  centre  and  sun, 

Whose  cycles,  all  golden  with  glory, 
For  ever  and  ever  shall  run. 


THEY  NEVER  COME  BACK. 

They  never  come  back,  though  our  hearts  may  be  breaking 
To  live  through  some  moments  they  gave  us,  again ; 

The  years  that  we  loved,  they  have  vanished  for  ever, 
And  we  stretch  out  our  longing  hands  for  them  in  vain. 

They  never  come  back,  for  eternity  holds  them. 
Sunk  deep  from  our  sight  in  a  soundless  abyss, 

0  !  gladly,  sometimes,  would  we  live  their  days  over, 
And  drink  deeper  draughts  from  their  fountains  of  bliss. 

Tliere  were  moments  supreme,  when  the  glory  of  heaven 
Lay  round  us  in  rainbow-hued  torrents  of  light, 

When  the  glow  of  the  universe  seemed  to  enfold  us 
And  life  was  all  stainless  and  lovely  and  bright. 

We  loved  in  the  years  that  are  dead,  and  we  trusted ; 

Such  love  and  such  trust  will  be  ours  never  more; 
The  bloom  from  life's  fruitage  is  gone,  and  love's  blossom 

Lies  trampled  and  crushed,  with  dead  leaves  buried  o'er. 

We  had  hopes,  in  the  golden-fringed  years  of  life's  morning. 
That  day  ere  the  dew-drops  had  vanished  away. 

When  we  thought  every  sparkle  a  pearl,  or  a  diamond. 
And  nothing  but  beauty  could  lie  on  our  way. 

O  !  sorely  we  miss  them,  those  moments  of  gladness, 
And  fain  would  recall  them,  if  only  we  could, 


SIR  HENRY  PARKES,  G.C.M.G.  397 

When  crowned  with  hope's  garland  and  glad  with  life's 
brightness, 
All  glowing  and  fresh  at  life's  threshold  we  stood. 

The  years  have  gone  over ;  life's  brightness  has  vanished, 
Hope's  garland  of  glory  lies  colourless  now  : 

And  life  that  we  thought  was  so  fall  of  life's  promise 
Has  woven  a  thorn-crown  to  la}'  on  each  brow. 

But  the  years  that  have  gone  have  borne  with  them  their 
sorrows  ; 

We  would  not  recall  those  again,  if  we  might. 
Thank  God  that  the  dead-griefs  are  dead,  as  the  joys  are  ! 

Thank  God  that  each  cloud  has  its  lining  of  light  ! 

They  are  dead,  they  are  dead,  and  are  buried  for  ever ; 

The  shadows  they  left  have  grown  dim  to  our  eyes ; 
We  see  but  the  glorious  sun  in  his  splendour, 

We  see  but  the  light,  if  we  look  to  the  skies. 

The  life  that  is  coming  is  glad  and  unending, 
And  notliing  of  love  or  of  joy  shall  it  lack  ; 

Thank  God  tlmt  Time's  chains  cannot  hold  us  for  ever ! 
Thank  God  that  the  dead  years  can  never  come  back  1 


SIR  HE^^RY  PARKES,  G.C.M.G, 

[Prime  Minister  of  New  South  Wales.  Born  at  Stoneleigh,  War- 
wickshire, 1815.  Migrated  to  Atistralia  in  1 839.  His  political 
career,  which  is  one  of  almost  unparalleled  activity  and  vigour, 
does  not  concern  the  present  purpose.  But,  in  addition  to 
his  published  poems,  Sir  Henry  has  always  shown  himself 
a  lover  of  literature  and  the  friend  and  patron  of  Colonial 
poets.  His  kindness  to  Kendall  was  life-long,  and  his  apprecia- 
tion of  any  form  of  literary  merit  gives  him  an  honoured  place 
in  tlie  annals  of  Australia.     It  is  doubtless  true  that  had  he 


39?^  A  US  TRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

devoted  his  great  ability  to  literature  purely,  he  would  have 
achieved  a  high  place.  It  was  under  his  regime  that  the  Empire 
nevi^spaper  was  the  means  of  bringing  into  public  notice  Charles 
Harpur  and  Henry  Kendall,  the  two  most  distinguished  poets 
of  New  South  Wales.  Sir  Henry  Parkes'  own  poems  should 
be  regarded  and  criticised  as  juvenilia,  his  vigorous  manhood 
having  been  devoted  to  politics  ;  but  there  are  lines  and  verses 
among  these  Murmurs  of  the  Stream  of  the  highest  merit. 
Few  English  statesmen  of  eminence  have  produced  a  set  of 
verses  equal  to  the  lines  on  "  Solitude,"  which  so  charmed  the 
late  Alfred  Domett. 

News  has  just  been  received  in  London  of  the  death  of  Lady 
Parkes.     Mr.  Varney  Parkes,  a  rising  M.P.,  is  Sir  Henry  s  son.] 

MY  BIRTHDAY. 

'Tis  come,  and  almost  gone,  ere  I  had  thouglit 
The  day  was  more  than  other  joyless  days  : 
And  can  it  be  that  I  am  really  brought 
O'er  all  this  waste  of  time,  by  Misery's  way's  ? 
A  quarter  of  a  century  !     I  gaze 
Upon  the  words  I've  written,  with  a  grief 
Which  might  atone  for  Pleasure's  idle  blaze — 
Alas  !  with  ample  bitterness,  even  if 
My  path  had  flowery  been,  my  sorrows  few  and  brief. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  is  lost : 
All  hath  been  built  upon  the  sand  to  fall ! 
I've  dreamt  away  my  life  at  mighty  cost ; 
Nor  mine  the  dreams  of  happiness  withal. 
"Well,  Time  may  have  his  laugh  out !     I  would  call 
Not  ev'n  the  sunny  moments  back  again ; 
Remembrance  holds  one  joy  at  least,  nor  small 
Its  blessed  influence  o'er  my  heart  and  brain — 
jNIan  never  knew  me  stoop  to  seek  unworthy  gain. 

My  birthday  !     And  in  England  there  are  some 
AVill  hail  to-day  with  blessings  for  my  sake, 


SIR  HENRY  PARKES,  G.CM.G.  399 

Distrusting  the  felicity  of  home, 
Because  my  absence  will  its  sunshine  make 
An  evanescent  shadow,  which  shall  wake 
Many  emotions' of  the  dreamy  heart. 
Companions  of  my  cliildhood  !  angels  take 
Charge  of  your  being ;  though  we're  torn  apart, 
If  my  fond   prayers   be  heard,  ne'er   will   your  bosoms 
smart. 

Time  leaves  the  world  with  a  destructive  speed, 
Breaking  young  hearts  before  they  should  have  wept ; 
As  such  were  wisely  disinherited 
Of  life's  realities,  one  grief  except. 
And  it  may  be  in  mercy  they  are  swept 
From  earth  so  early,  with  the  beautiful. 
The  treasured  sweets  which  cannot  here  be  kept. 
The  fragile  flowers  of  spring  which  rude  hands  cull. 
Since  mortal  worth  and  weal  seem  incompatible. 

But  whence  these  musings?     My  heart  hardened  is 
By  what  had  haply  broken  it,  if  one 
It  had  been,  so  susceptible  of  this 
World's  crushing  evils ;  and  I  struggle  on. 
It  may  come  mine,  when  future  years  are  gone, 
Yet  in  beloved  England  to  jjossess 
A  home  of  peace,  and  think  of  all  I've  done. 
Even  with  a  keener  tranquil  happiness 
Than  if  I  could  have  passed  through  life  with  suffering 
less. 

I  know  the  vanity  of  hope.     The  same 
False  light  may  lure  me  on  from  year  to  year 
Which  led  me  from  my  childhood,  till  I  came 
O'er  half  the  world,  to  be  an  outcast  here, 
Hurled,  worm-like,  on  the  Antarctic  hemispliere. 


400  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Perchance,  to  die,  cut  off  from  man's  esteem  : 
Yet  turn  I  to  this  hope  the  oftener 
For  consolation,  when  they  little  deem 
I,  with  my  present  lot,  am  happier  than  I  seem. 


SONNET. 

Who  would  not  be  a  poet — to  seclude 
Himself  in  a  bright  starry  solitude, 

Away  from  earthly  wretchedness  at  will ; 
Where  no  unlovely  thing  might  present  be, 
To  dim  the  light  of  ideality. 

And  Nature's  glories  might  surround  him  still  1 
AVho  would  not  be  a  poet — to  be  blest 
AVith  the  rich  thoughts  which  they  in  words  have  drest 
To  feel  the  fire  of  their  undying  hopes. 

To  see  all  beauty  with  their  gifted  sight, 
To  hang  o'er  Byron's,  Campbell's,  Milton's,  Pope's, 

And  Spencer's  page,  with  their  divine  delight? 
Who  would  not  even  a  poet',"  loves  possess, 
To  inherit  that  wild  power  which  beautifies  distress  ? 


SONNET. 

Escaped  from  shipwreck,  on  a  South  Sea  isle, 
Where  grew  the  bread-tree,  a  poor  Briton  dwelt ; 
Living  on  pity  which  the  savage  felt, 
And  hope  which  pictured  still  his  loved  one's  smile. 
A  chief-boy  chanced  that  pale  one  first  to  meet, 
Who  brought  him  food  prepared  from  choicest  fruits  : 
And  led  him  forth  to  fountains  cool  and  sweet. 
And  showed  him  all  the  islesmen's  rude  pursuits. 


SIR  HENRY  PARKES,  G.C.M.G.  401 

He  grew  half  happy  with  his  uncouth  friends, — 
For  many  friends  'mong  the  dusk  tribes  he  won  : 
And  still  some  gentle  boy  his  wants  attends, 
Seeking  for  him  all  treasures  of  the  sun. 
Tears  rolled  away  even  so  ;  yet  would  he  weep 
Wildly  for  his  lost  love  beyond  the  stormy  deeji. 


SEVENTY. 

Threescore  and  ten, — the  weight  of  years 
Scarce  seems  to  touch  the  tireless  brain  ; 

How  bright  the  future  still  appears  J 
How  dim  the  past  of  toil  and  pain  ! 

In  that  fair  time  when  all  was  new, 

Who  thought  of  threescore  years  and  ten  1 

Of  those  who  shared  the  race,  how  few 
Are  numbered  now  with  living  men  ! 

Some  fell  upon  the  right,  and  some 
Upon  the  left,  as,  year  by  year. 

The  chain  kept  length'ning  nearer  home — 
Yet  home  e'en  now  may  not  be  near. 

But  yesterday  I  chanced  to  meet 

A  man  whose  years  were  ninety-three  ; 

He  walked  alone  the  crowded  street — 
His  eye  was  bright,  his  step  was  free. 

And  well  I  knew  a  worthy  who, 

Dying  in  harness,  as  men  say. 
Had  lived  a  hundred  years  and  two. 

Not  halting  on  his  toilsome  way  ! 

2  C 


402  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

How  much  of  action  undesigned 
Will  modify  to-morrow's  plan  ! 

The  gleams  of  foresight  leave  us  blind 
When  we  the  far-off  path  would  scan. 

What  task  of  glorious  toil  for  good, 
What  service,  what  achievement  high. 

May  nerve  the  will,  refire  the  blood. 

Who  knows,  ere  strikes  the  hour  to  die  ! 

The  next  decade  of  time  and  fate 
The  mighty  changes  manifold, 

The  grander  growth  of  Rule  and  State, 
Perchance  these  eyes  may  yet  behold  ! 

But  be  it  late,  or  be  it  soon, 

If,  striving  hard,  we  give  our  best. 

Why  need  we  sigh  for  other  boon  1 — 
Our  title  will  be  good  for  rest. 


THE  FLAG. 

Fling  out  the  flag — our  virgin  flag, 
Which  foeman's  shot  has  never  rent, 

And  plant  it  high  on  mount  and  crag, 
O'er  busy  town  and  lonely  tent ; — 

Where  Commerce  rears  her  stately  halls, 
And  where  the  miner  rends  the  rock, 

Where  the  sweet  rain  on  cornfield  falls, 
Where  pastures  feed  the  herd  and  flock. 

Still  let  it  float  o'er  homes  of  peace, 
Our  starry  cross — our  glorious  sign  ! 


SIR  HENRY  PARKES,  G.C.M.G.  403 

While  Nature's  bounteous  gifts  increase, 
And  Freedom's  glories  brighter  shine  ! 

Brave  hearts  may  beat  in  Labour's  strife, 
They  need  no  spur  of  martial  pride ; 

High  deeds  may  crown  a  gentle  life, 
And  spread  their  radiance  far  and  wide. 

Fling  out  the  flag,  and  guard  it  well ! 

Our  pleasant  fields  the  foe  ne'er  trod  ; 
Long  may  our  guardian  heroes  dwell 

In  league  with  truth,  in  camp  wqth  God  ! 

In  other  lands  the  patriot  boasts 

His  standard  borne  through  slaughter's  flood, 
"Which,  waving  o'er  infuriate  hosts, 

AVas  consecrate  in  fire  and  blood. 

A  truer  charm  our  flag  endears ; 

Where'er  it  waves,  on  land  or  sea, 
It  bears  no  stain  of  blood  and  tears — 

Its  glory  is  its  purity. 

God  girdled  our  majestic  isle 

With  seas  far-reaching  east  and  west. 

That  man  might  live  beneath  His  smile, 
In  peace  and  freedom  ever  blest. 


BOUNDING  O'ER  THE  SUMMER  SEA. 

Bounding  o'er  the  summer  sea, 
Breezes  blow,  breezes  blow  ! 

Happy  thoughts  and  fancies  free 
Come  and  go,  come  and  go  ! 


404  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Happy  thoughts  of  Love's  surprise, 
Breezes  blow,  breezes  blow  ! 

Fancies  of  the  loved  one's  eyes, 
Beaming  so,  beaming  so  ! 

Bounding  like  a  joyous  sprite, 

Through  the  foam,  through  the  foam  ! 

Like  a  bird  before  the  night. 
Winging  home,  winging  home  ! 

"Will  they  meet  us,  child  and  wife. 
Bud  and  rose,  bud  and  rose  ? 

He  who  counts  the  sands  of  life 
Only  knows,  only  knows  ! 


BISMARCK. 

What  all-consuming  love  of  fatherland 
Inflamed  his  heart  and  nerved  his  tireless  hand. 
As  day  by  day  he  drew,  in  conscious  pride, 
Light  from  all  sources,  strength  from  every  side  ; 
While  yet  he  urged  his  silent  quest  of  j^ower, 
Foreseeing,  'midst  the  blind,  the  crowning  hour ! 
How  in  his  giant's  work  he  planned  and  built, 
Unswayed  by  fear  and  undismayed  by  guilt, 
Proud  Austria  curbing  by  Italia's  blow. 
And  striking  down  the  open  Gallic  foe ; 
Appraising  at  low  cost  the  "iron  and  blood;^' 
So  the  strong  ramparts  stay  the  surging  flood, 
While  foams  the  wild  democracy  all  round. 
And  the  new  Empire  rises  armed  and  crowned  ! 
Yet  0  how  little  all  which  men  call  great 
Has  blessed  men's  homes,  or  formed  a  happy  State ! 


SIR  HENRY  PARKES,  G.C.M.G.  405 

In  what  faint  letters  on  the  scroll  of  Fame 
AVill  be  inscribed  the  world-resounding  name  ! 
How  far  from  those  who  hold  the  highest  place, — 
The  benefactors  of  the  human  race ! 


THE  STRONG  MAN. 

Like  a  rock  that  breasts  the  sea, 
Firm  he  stood,  in  front  of  foes  ; 

To  his  friends  a  sheltering  tree 
That  in  changeless  beauty  grows. 

Firm  alike  to  friend  and  foe, 
Firm  in  gentleness  and  faith. 

Firm  in  "yes,"  and  firm  in  "no," 
Firm  through  life  and  firm  in  death. 


TO  INEZ. 

0  !  'tis  not  that  thy  form  is  fair, 
Thy  every  motion  light  and  grace ; 

'Tis  not  the  glory  of  thy  hair — 
'Tis  not  the  sunshine  of  thy  face. 

The  spell  that  holds  me,  fond  and  true, 
Is  that  dear  self  unspeakable — 

That  something  which  is  always  you — 
In  simplest  acts  most  beautiful. 

"What  is  it,  love  1 — I  cannot  tell ! 

Those  honeyed  lips,  those  passioned  eyes, 

1  kiss  because  I  know  so  well 

The  heart  that  to  my  heart  replies. 


4o6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

With  thee  I  walk  the  crowded  street, 
With  thee  I  roam  the  travelled  sea ; 

A  thousand  lovely  forms  I  meet, 
But  never,  never  one  like  thee. 

The  burden  of  my  future  years — 
It  may  be  more  than  I  can  bear ; 

l]ut  where  the  darkest  cloud  appears, 
Thy  love  will  beam  the  brightest  there. 


JOHN  PLUMMEE. 

[For  twenty  years  London  correspondent  to  the  Sydney  Morning/ 
Herald.  Has  for  eight  years  been  engaged  on  the  Australian 
press.  Is  now  in  the  office  of  the  other  great  Sydney  paper, 
The  Town  and  Country  Journal.] 

ONLY  A  FLOWER. 

Only  a  flower,  yet  whispering  fond 

The  tidings  glad  from  realms  above, 
Bidding  our  hearts  with  joy  respond 

To  God  the  Father's  boundless  love — 
Guiding  our  souls,  when  tempest-driven 

Across  Life's  dark  and  angry  main, 
To  where  the  beacon-lights  of  Heaven 

Bring  rest  from  earthly  care  and  pain. 

Only  a  flower,  yet  it  may  teach, 

In  all  its  simple  loveliness, 
Mightier  truths  than  sage  can  preach. 

How  faith  sublime  the  world  can  bless. 
Forming  the  bright  and  welcome  token — 

E'en  as  the  stars  at  night  that  shine, 
Gemming  the  azure  arch  unbroken — 

Of  wondrous  love  and  pow'r  divine. 


W.  N.  PRATT.  407 

Only  a  flower,  yet  He  whose  hand 

Hath  bade  each  bud  with  beauty  bloom, 
Oer  earth  and  sea  liath  stern  command, 

O'er  summer's  joy  and  winter's  gloom  ; 
Yet,  in  His  mercy,  stoops  to  listen 

To  sorrow's  wail,  to  suff'ring's  prayer, 
And  bids  the  tear  no  longer  glisten, 

The  heart  no  more  of  peace  despair. 


W.  N.  PRATT. 

[Of  the  Engineer- in-Chief 's  Department  in  South  Australia.  The 
following  poem  was  published  in  the  Christian  Colonist,  in 
Adelaide,  South  Australia.  Its  full  force  will  be  appreciated 
when  one  calls  to  mind  the  extreme  dryness  from  which  South 
Australia  suffers.] 

RAIN. 

Hark  to  the  rain  !  its  cooling  drops  are  falling 
On  failing  stream,  on  thirsty  field  and  plain ; 

]  lark  to  the  birds  !  how  each  sweet  voice  is  calling 
A  happy  blessing  on  the  gentle  rain  ! 

And  as  it  falls  there  wakes  the  glad  refrain 

From  every  pattering  rain-drop — Hark  to  the  rain  ! 

Hark  to  the  rain !  its  strange  and  welcome  beating 
^Makes  music  on  the  roof  and  window-pane ; 

And  each  glad  heart  the  music  keeps  repeating 
Till  all  the  notes  are  blended,  and  the  strain 

From  home  and  altar,  church  and  holy  fane, 

lie-echoes  up  to  Heaven — Hark  to  the  rain ! 

Ifark  to  the  rain  !     Beneath  the  bare  earth,  sleeping, 
The  flowers  will  waken  at  the  sound  again, 


4o8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  swelling  buds  and  grass  come  shyly  peeping 

And  smile  to  see  the  long-lost,  welcome  rain ; 
And  flocks  and  herds,  that  thirsted  long  in  vain, 
Will  join  the  joyous  chorus — Hark  to  the  rain  ! 

Hark  to  the  rain  !     All  ye  that  trust  in  Science, 
And  boldly  say  that  Law  alone  can  reign. 

Hearken,  and  learn  that  only  in  compliance 

With  Love,  and  Law,  and  Prayer  God  giveth  rain  ; 

And,  as  ye  hearken,  humbly  join  the  strain, 

Confess  that  God  is  Power — Hark  to  the  rain ! 

Hark  to  the  rain  !  as  though  from  Heaven  were  falling 
God's  pitying  tear-drops,  earthwards  borne  as  rain  ; , 

But  not  to  stay.  On  the  dry  earth  they're  calling, 
"  I've  blessed  you  ;  wake  to  life,  and  bless  again ; 

Bring  forth  your  fruits,  your  wealth  of  golden  grain. 

That  all  may  eat  and  live — Hark  to  the  rain  !  " 

Hark  to  the  rain  !  with  praise  the  earth  is  ringing, 
No  voice  of  hers  can  silent  now  remain ; 

The  fields  grow  green,  the  birds  for  joy  are  singing, 
Full  flow  the  brooks,  the  flowers  fresh  perfume  gain  ; 

Earth's  voices  call — shall  man  his  voice  restrain  ? 

No  !  we  with  them  are  singing — Hark  to  the  rain  ! 


RICHARDSON  RAE.  409 


RICHARDSON  RAE. 

[Treasurer  of  the  Westland  County  Council,  Hohitika,  New  Zealand. 
Has  published  a  volume  entitled  Pencillings  by  Land  and  Sea, 
from  which  the  poem  quoted  is  taken.] 

FAILED. 

0  HOW  the  summers  roll  aAvay  ! 
This  day  full  thirty  years  ago 

I  left  the  lane,  then  deep  in  snow, 
For  clearer  sky  and  brighter  day. 

1  left  the  lane,  the  hedge-bound  lane, 
The  poplar-skirted  lane  at  Home  ; 

I  said,  "  In  new  lands  I  will  roanr — - 
In  sunny  climes,  across  the  main." 

The  winter  wind,  through  many  a  tree 
Blew  poplar-leaves  deep  brown  and  red 
{For  nature  then  was  cold  and  dead) 

Around  the  village,  drearily. 

The  yellow  leaves,  the  leaves  deep  brown, 
Fell,  with  each  gust,  on  roof  and  pane — ■ 
Fell  on  the  snow,  and  strewed  the  lane 

That  wended  through  our  rustic  town. 

Bare  and  black  branches,  here  and  there, 

Shot  up  against  a  leaden  sky  ; 

The  angry  gale  went  wailing  by, 
Strewing  the  dead  leaves  everywhere. 

"Farewell,  old  Home  and  friends,"  I  said; 
"  To  distant  golden  shores  I  go 
\^^lich  know  not  winter,  know  not  snow. 

Nor  leaves  thick  falling,  red  and  dead." 


4T0  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

jMy  life  was  all  before  me  then, 

With  all  its  hopes,  and  trust,  and  youth  ; 
With  all  its  dreams  of  good  and  truth. 

And  faith  in  self  and  fellow-men. 

Great  Lord  !  it  seems  but  yesterday  ! 
And  yet  those  thirty  years  have  fled 
Like  withered  leaves,  deep  brown  and  dead, 

That  morning  stamped  into  the  clay. 

Like  winter  leaves  the  years  have  gone  ; 
Like  withered  leaves,  deep  brown  and  red, 
All  hopes  and  dreams  of  Home  are  dead, 

And  scattered,  broadcast,  every  one  ! 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'EEILLY. 

[Formerly  of  West  Australia,  now  residing  at  Boston,  U.S.      Has 
published  several  volumes  of  poetry.] 

WESTERN  AUSTRALIA. 

O  BEAUTEOUS  South-land  !  land  of  yellow  air, 

That  hangeth  o'er  thee  slumbering,  and  doth  hold 

Tlie  moveless  foliage  of  thy  valley  fair 
And  wooded  hills,  like  aureole  of  gold. 

0  tliou,  discovered  ere  the  fitting  time, 

Ere  Nature  in  completion  turned  thee  forth ! 

Ere  aught  was  finished  but  thy  peerless  clime, 
Thy  virgin  breath  allured  the  amorous  Noith. 

0  land,  God  made  thee  wondrous  to  the  eye  ! 

But  His  sweet  singers  thou  hast  never  heard ; 
He  left  thee,  meaning  to  come  by-and-by, 

And  give  rich  voice  to  every  bright-winged  bird. 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY.  411 

lie  painted  with  fresh  hues  thy  myriad  flowers, 
But  left  them  scentless  :  ah  !  their  woeful  dole, 

Like  sad  reproach  of  their  Creator's  powers, — 
To  make  so  sweet  fair  bodies,  void  of  soul. 

lie  gave  thee  trees  of  odorous  precious  wood ; 

But  'midst  them  all  bloomed  not  one  tree  of  fruit. 
He  looked,  but  said  not  that  His  work  was  good, 

When  leaving  thee  all  perfumeless  and  mute. 

He  blessed  thy  flowers  with  honey :  every  bell 
Looks  earthward,  sunward,  with  a  yearning  wist ; 

But  no  bee-lover  ever  notes  the  swell 

Of  hearts,  like  lips,  a-hungering  to  be  kist. 

0  stranger  land,  thou  art  virgin !  thou  art  more 
Than  fig-tree  barren  !     Would  that  I  could  paint 

For  others'  eyes  the  glory  of  the  shore 

Where  last  I  saw  thee  !     But  the  senses  faint 

In  soft  delicious  dreaming  when  they  drain 
Thy  wine  of  colour.     Virgin  fair  thou  art. 

All  sweetly  fruitful,  waiting  with  soft  pain 

The  spouse  who  comes  to  wake  the  sleeping  heart. 


''THE  LAST  TALK." 

[The  author  of  the  following  poem  desires  to  remain  incognito.] 

Come  out  in  the  garden  and  walk  with  me, 
"While  the  dancers  whirl  to  that  dreary  tune ; 
See  !  the  moonlight  silvers  the  sleeping  sea, 
And  the  world  is  fair  as  a  night  in  June. 
Let  me  hold  your  hand  as  I  used  to  do — 
This  is  the  last,  last  time,  you  know, 
For  to-morrow  a  wooer  comes  to  woo 
And  to  win  you,  though  I  love  you  so. 


412  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

You  are  pale — or  is  it  the  moonlight's  gleam 
That  gives  to  your  face  that  sorrowful  look? 
"We  must  wake  at  last  from  our  summer  dream, 
We  have  come  to  the  end  of  our  tender  book. 
Love,  the  poet,  has  written  well ; 
He  has  won  our  hearts  by  his  poem  sweet ; 
And  now,  at  the  end,  we  must  say  farewell — 
Ah  !  but  the  summer  was  fair  and  fleet. 

Do  you  remember  the  night  we  met  ? 
You  Avore  a  rose  in  your  yellow  hair ; 
Closing  my  eyes  I  can  see  you  yet, 
Just  as  you  stood  on  the  topmost  stair, 
A  flutter  of  white  from  head  to  feet, 
A  cluster  of  buds  on  your  breast.     Ah  me  ! 
But  the  vision  was  never  half  so  sweet 
As  it  is  to-night  on  my  memory. 

Hear  the  viol's  cry,  and  the  deep  bassoon 

Seems  sobbing  out,  in  its  undertone, 

Some  sorrowful  memory.     The  tune 

Is  the  saddest  one  I  have  ever  known. 

Or  is  it  because  we  must  part  to-night 

That  the  music  seems  so  sad  ?     Ah  me  ! 

You  are  weeping,  love,  and  your  lips  are  white- 

The  ways  of  life  are  a  mystery. 

I  love  you,  love,  with  a  love  so  true 
Tliat  in  coming  years  I  shall  not  forget 
The  beautiful  face  and  the  dream  I  knew, 
And  memory  always  will  hold  regret. 
I  shall  stand  by  the  seas  as  I  stand  to-night. 
And  think  of  the  summer  whose  blossoms  died 
When  the  frosts  of  fate  fell  chill  and  white 
On  the  fairest  flower  of  the  summer-tide. 


CATHERINE  RICHARDSON.  413 

They  are  calling  you — must  I  let  you  go  1 
Must  I  say  good-bye  and  go  my  way  ? 
If  we  must  part,  it  is  better  so — 
Good-bye 's  such  a  sorrowful  word  to  say  ! 
Give  me,  my  darling,  one  last  sweet  kiss,— 
So  we  kiss  our  dear  ones  and  see  them  die  ; 
But  death  holds  no  parting  so  sad  as  this ; — 
God  bless  you,  and  keep  you,  and  so — good-bye. 


CATHERINE  RICHARDSON. 

[Of  Dunedin,  New  Zealand.  Has  published  a  volume  entitled 
Gahriellc,  and  other  Poems  (Dunedin,  New  Zealand  :  Beith  and 
Wilkie),  from  which  this  poem  is  quoted.] 

BEAUTIFUL  FERNS. 

Beautiful,  delicate,  fairy-like  things  ! 

Ye  bend  where  the  forest  its  deep  shadow  flings — 

Where  the  long  dank  weeds  weep  their  dews  all  day. 

And  there  falls  not  a  sunbeam  to  chase  them  away. 

As  the  pale  calm  nuns,  with  their  heads  bowed  low, 

In  the  long  procession  move  sad  and  slow, 

While  ever  the  low  and  quick-clianted  hymn, 

Floats  through  the  long  aisle  strange  and  dim  ; 

So  seem  ye  to  bow  by  the  rivulet's  banks, 

While  its  soft  murmurs  float  through  your  solemn  ranks 

In  the  forest's  dim  twilight,  cold  and  grey. 

Like  a  chanted  hymn  to  the  dying  day. 

Above,  like  a  canopy,  silvered  and  green. 

Wave  the  feathery  plumes  of  your  graceful  Queen  ; 

And  frail  dark  fronds  with  their  netted  roots. 

And  the  ring-like  curl  of  their  delicate  shoots, 


414  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

O'erwrought  as  with  many  a  fairy-like  geui, 

As  drapery  liang  round  her  fibroxis  stem. 

Ye  bear  the  faint  perfume  of  dying  leaves 

That  fall  around  ye  from  branching  eaves 

As  your  long,  brown  roots,  with  their  knotted  knees, 

Clasp  the  dead  trunks  of  the  mouldering  trees ; 

Your  green  pall  covering  the  mournful  dead, 

As  memory  hallows  the  days  long  fled  : 

So  drooping,  so  lovely  !  frail,  delicate  things. 

Ye  are  emblems  of  thought,  when  its  folding  wings 

Droop  earthward,  and  mourn  o'er  the  cold,  dead  past ; 

And  the  sin-burdened  soul,  with  her  eyes  downcast. 

Pondering  o'er  things  that  shall  be  no  more. 

Weeps  penitent  tears  for  the  days  of  yore. 


EGBERT  RICHARDSOK 

[An  Australian  native,  son  of  the  Hon.  —  Richardson,  the  oldest 
politician  but  one  in  the  Australian  colonies  ;  an  old  Sydney 
Grauimar-School  captain,  and  a  graduate  of  Sydney  Univer- 
sity ;  is  the  "  Roving  Australian  "  familiar  to  all  readers  of  the 
Sydney  Morning  Herald,  and  has  published  many  books.  The 
first  Australian-born  writer  who  made  his  mark  in  England.] 

ANNETTE. 

And  they  say,  Annette,  that  you 
Broke  a  foolish  heart  or  two ; 
Can  I  wonder  were  this  true  1 
For  I  will  admit,  Annette, 
That  you  were  a  sad  coquette — 
Fain  of  praise,  and  fain  of  kisses, 
Fond  of  all  the  farthing  blisses 
That  for  fallen  man  unmeet  are, 
So  they  tell  us,  yet  so  sweet  are  ; 


ROBERT  RICHARDSON.  415 

Fond  of  your  glad  world,  and  this  is 
All  tlie  blame  I  can  recall, 
That  on  your  light  head  should  fall — 
And  I  knew  you  best  of  all. 

Little  thought  and  little  care 
Than  to  braid  your  rippled  hair, 
Ribbon  blue,  or  crimson,  wear — 
Who  in  all  the  giddy  fair, 
Who  so  bright  and  debounair  1 
Yet,  indeed,  Annette,  you  were  ; 
Just  a  little  tired  sometimes 
Of  the  sound  of  the  midnight  chimes  ; 
AVeary  of  the  gaudy  show. 
Tired  of  rout  and  Park  and  Row, 
Longing  for  the  night's  retreat — 
Tired  little  heart — and  feet. 
Dancing  days  are  quickly  run, — 
Dead,  and  only  tweuty-one. 

Ke'er  so  glad  as  when  you  had 
Twenty  lovers,  man  and  lad, 
Round  you  waiting  for  a  glance 
From  your  radiant  heaux  ijeur, 
(Certes,  they  were  very  blue)  ; 
Twenty  lovers  in  a  row, 
Callow  gallants,  faded  beaux, 
I  have  seen  them  come  and  go, 
Waiting  patient  for  the  chance 
Of  a  single  fleeting  dance  ; 
Mayfair's  youtli  and  chivalry 
Bent  to  you  their  gartered  knee. 

Never  more  shall  feet  of  yours 
Lightly  lead  the  laughing  hours, 


4i6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Lead  the  waltz's  dreamy  dance, 
To  the  "fair  old  tunes  of  France." 
Dancing  days  are  fleetly  run, 
Dead,  and  only  twenty-one. 

If  that  ancient  psychic  view 
Of  Pythagoras  be  true, 
Your  light  soul  is  surely  now 
In  that  bird  upon  the  bougli, 
Singing  with  soft-swelling  throat 
To  the  wind  that  heeds  it  not ; 
Or  in  that  blue  butterfly 
Flitting  like  a  jewel  by, 
Flashing  azure  to  the  sun ; 
Soon,  like  yours,  its  day  is  run, — 
Dead,  and  only  twenty-one. 

Dead  a  week,  and  not  already 
Quite  forgotten — nay,  what  right  have 
I  to  doubt  it  1     Sure  we  might  have 
Easier  missed  a  wiser  lady. 
Over  you  the  grass  will  blow. 
Springs  will  come  and  autumns  go. 
Will,  you,  Annette,  ever  know 
There  remain  here  one  or  two 
Who  will  still  remember  you ; 
O'er  whose  mem'ry  now  and  then. 
With  a  thought  of  loss  and  pain, 
There  will  cross  your  fair  flower-face, 
And  the  bright  coquettish  grace, 
With  the  memory  of  old  days  ? 

Somewhere,  then,  beyond  the  blue, 
In  the  mansions  that  so  many 
Are,  they  say,  is  there  not  any 
One  of  all,  Annette,  for  you — 


ROBERT  RICHARDSON.  417 

You,  whose  only  trespass  this  is 
That  you  loved  the  farthing  blisses — 
Broke  a  foolish  heart  in  twain, 
That  would  lightly  mend  again. 
Warm  summer  sun,  shine  friendly  lioro, 
"Warm  western  wind,  blow  kindly  here. 
Green  sod  above,  rest  light,  rest  light — 
Good-night,  Annette  !  sweetheart,  good-night ! 


A  HAY-CART  IN  THE  CITY. 

Not  a  breath  was  stirring 

In  the  narrow  street, 
Hot  on  wall  and  pavement 

Fell  the  sultry  heat. 
Sudden  comes  a  hay-cart 

Piled  up  wide  and  high, 
Blocking  up  the  causeway, 

Shutting  out  the  sky. 

Sitting  at  my  window — 

Idle  pen  and  brain — 
Full  into  my  vision 

Comes  the  rustling  wain, 
And  a  balmy  fragrance — 

All  the  summer's  breath — 
Suddenly  is  wafted 

From  the  street  beneath. 

Quick  from  lane  and  alley. 

With  a  joyful  shout, 
Troops  of  pallid  children 

Scurrying,  scrambling  out ! 

2  D 


■418  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

All  to  see  that  hay-cart 
Swaying  slowly  by — 

Like  a  yellow  mountain 
'Gainst  the  dusty  sky. 

And  my  thoughts  go  speeding 

To  the  woods  away, 
Where  the  hawthorn  hedges 

Scent  the  summer  day, 
Where  in  beechen  bowers 

Lights  fall  dim  and  cool, 
And  the  weeping-willows 

Stoop  to  kiss  the  pool. 

Far  away  to  uplands, 

Where  the  long  day  through 
Sings  the  happy  skylark, 

Floating  in  the  blue. 
In  the  river  meadows — - 

Ankle-deep  in  clover — 
Fleeting  clear  and  mellow, 

Blackbirds  hover  over. 

Who  can  tell  the  magic 

Might  of  little  things  1 
Now  my  dusky  room  is 

Full  of  glancing  wings. 
Breath  of  blowing  woodlands 

Floats  along  the  lane — 
Woodland  whispers,  soothing 

Tired  heart  and  brain. 

Wood,  and  singing  river. 
Bird  and  rustling  tree — 

All  the  green  world  seemeth 
Present  now  Avith  me.    , 


J.  STEELE  ROBERTSON.  419 

From  that  fragrant  hay-cart 

!^^ay  the  same  thoughts  flow 
To  the  tired  children 

In  the  street  below  ! 


J.   STEELE  EOBERTSON. 

[Of  Lhu  Melbourne  University;  a  frequent  contributor  to  tlie 
Melbourne  University  Magazine,  usually  under  the  nom-de- 
plume  of  "  Jayessar."] 

MUSK  GULLY,  DROMANA. 

Far  o'er  the  mountain  summit  lies 
A  vale  of  gladness,  ever  green, 
Where  feathery  ferns  and  moss  have  been 

From  long-forgotten  centuries. 

There  Beauty  lives,  nor  ever  dies ; 
But  summer  after  summer  comes, 
And  clothes  again  the  mountain  domes 

With  sweetness ;  and  a  soft  wind  sighs, 

While  down  the  valley  runs  a  rill 
Of  pearly  water,  leaping,  falling, 
O'er  rocks  and  stones,  and  singing,  calling, 

To  ferns  and  wild-musk  of  the  hill. 
Unto  the  gentle  voice  they  bow. 
Saying  for  ever,  saying  now, 

"  Behold  us  !  here  is  Kature  still !  " 

Here  Nature  singeth,  loud  and  strong, 

A  strain  begot  of  lovely  places ; 

And  woodland  elves  show  laughing  faces — 
To  them  the  place  doth  still  belong. 


420  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

It  knows  not  right,  it  knows  not  wrong, 
But  singeth,  aye,  a  song  of  gladness ; 
To  it  there  cometh  one  in  sadness, 

And  sadness  flieth  at  the  song. 

He  sees,  and  straight  of  Eden  thinks ; 
His  woes  are  lost  in  woodland  runes ; 
His  soul  with  Nature's  soul  communes ; 

His  mind  the  draught  of  Leth^  drinks. 
He  thanks  the  Power  who  reigns  above, 
Who  left  to  join  us,  in  his  love, 

To  Heaven,  spots  like  this  as  links. 


J.  HOWLETT  EOSS. 

[A  Victorian  by  birth,  though  now  in  London,  in  the  office  of  Messrs. 
Gordon  &  Gotch,  the  Australian  publishers ;  is  also  an  elocu- 
tionist and  iournalist.] 

BOURKE-STREET. 
(from  a  balcony.) 


Out  of  the  crush  of  it. 

Every  one  hurrying — • 
Viewing  the  rush  of  it. 

Working  and  worrying, 
All  looking  well-dressed. 

Wealth  there  and  labour- 
Loving  the  world  best — 

Self  than-  the  neighbour, 


J.  HOWLETT  ROSS.  421 

Thoughtless  and  reckless 

Up  rings  the  laughter 
From  lives  that  are  fleckless — 

God  guide  their  hereafter. 
All  there  seems  joyance — 

Young  man  and  maiden, 
With  feeling  whose  buoyance 

No  care  has  made  raid  in. 

'Tis  well,  that  light-hearted, 

Adolescence  discovers 
The  sweet  joy  imparted 

In  embraces  of  lovers ; 
They  wot  not  the  years  bring 

New  ties,  and  new  faces — 
That,  too  often,  repenting 

Rejoicing  replaces. 

Joy  in  the  youth  of  it  ! 

Build  in  profusion 
Hopes,  till  the  truth  of  it 

Dispels  the  illusion  ! 
Life's  as  it  seemeth — 

A  garden  and  river. 
Where  the  soul  dreameth. 

Enraptured  for  ever. 

Still  the  crowd  is  accrescent 

From  Avidths  of  the  city, 
And  the  laughter  incessant 

Ascends,  like  a  ditty 
Some  bird  in  his  rapture 

And  worshipping,  singeth, 
Till  the  horrors  of  capture 

His  music  outwringeth. 


AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


II. 

Look  closer,  look  deeper, 

Soul  mine,  be  discerning — ■ 
Behold  there  the  weeper 

All  woefully  yearning 
For  the  peace  that  was  sifted 

In  sieve-net  of  sorrow. 
And  left  the  life  rifted 

And  strengthless  to  borrow 

Surcease  of  affliction. 

Destroying,  devouring, 
Defying  eviction 

From  stricken  hearts  cow'ring 
In  anguish,  unnoted 

By  a  world  self-admiring — 
Too  deeply  devoted 

To  lucre  acquiring. 

Thus  has  the  world  wagged 

For  ages  and  ages, 
Careless  its  knife  jagged 

The  wisdom  of  sages. 
Thus  is  the  life  of  it 

Man's  own  evolving — 
The  peace  and  the  strife  of  it 

In  succession  dissolving. 

Necessity  ruleth — 

Who  bows  to  it  gaineth — 
Who  murmurs,  befooleth 

His  wit,  and  complaiueth 


J.  HOW  LETT  ROSS.  423 

In  vain,  for  its  might 

(Co-eterne  with  creation), 
Ever  wins  in  the  fight 

Of  this  life  of  probation. 


Out  are  the  lights  all — 

The  hurrying  ceaseth, 
Mystery  bedights  all — 

Silence  increaseth. 
Hush'd  is  the  clamour 

Of  buying  and  selling. 
Wisely  the  hammer 

Of  Time  is  compelling 
From  labour  desistance, 

And  clangeth  the  Avarning — 
The  strife  for  existence 

Must  cease  till  the  morning. 

— Fro7n  the  Australasian. 


SPARE  THE  PIGEONS. 

Spare  the  pigeons,  sportsman  clever  ! 

'Tis  but  meanness 

That  such  keenness 
Should  be  spent  on  flattering  meekness, 
On  the  birds  whose  utter  weakness 

Should  but  render 

Hearts  more  tender, 
More  determined  to  endeavour 

Out  to  crash  the  brutal  practice 

Of  decoying 

And  destroying 
God's  sweet  birds,  that  in  their  cooing 


424  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

By  their  soft  melodious  wooing 

In  the  steeples 

Tell  the  peoples 
Love  a  great  and  glorious  fact  is. 

On  the  housetops  see  them  billing — 

Emblems  ever. 

Man  should  never 
Foul  his  life  vfith  harsh  uncouthness, 
But  impart  a  pleasant  smoothness 

To  his  life-deeds — 

Rooting  strife-weeds, 

That  his  better  thoughts  are  killing. 
Mighty  Lord  of  all  creation. 

Spare  the  pigeons ! 

Your  religions 
Boast  a  canon  of  behaviour 
That  a  wise,  omniscient  Saviour 

(God's  anointed) 

Hath  appointed 

For  the  guidance  of  the  nation. 
He  hath  taught  that  life  is  holy — 

IS'ot  the  smallest 

Wing  that  fallest 
To  the  earth  remains  unnoted, 
For  He  loves  the  tuneful-throated 

Birds,  whose  singing 

Ever  ringing 
Heavenwards,  do  His  bidding  solely. 

Man,  the  marvel  of  our  latest 

Wondrous  history, 

'Tis  a  mystery 
You  have  stooped  to  sport  so  savage, 


RICHARD  ROWE.  425 

Do  no  fiercer  monsters  ravage, 

Eartli's  expanses, 

Giving  chances 
To  display  thee  at  thy  greatest  ? 

Hast  tliou  no  profound  ambition 

Inly  burning, 

Vainly  yearning, 
Life's  great  riddle  to  unravel  1 
l)ost  thou,  heedless,  onward  travel, 

!Never  heeding 

What  is  leading 
All  things  upward  to  fraition  ? 

Spare  the  pigeons  !     Spare  the  singers, 

Whose  sweet  ditties 

Fill  the  cities 
With  a  joy,  a  grace  elysian, 
Seeming  but  a  fleeting  vision 

Eorn  of  fancy — 

Necromancy — 
Tintini,'  all  with  maGtic  fingers. 


RICHARD  ROWE. 

[Better  known  in  Australia  under  his  pen-name  of  "  Peter  Possum  ; " 
was  a  great  favourite  with  the  Australian  public,  more,  how- 
ever, as  a  journalist  than  as  a  poet.  "  His  humour,"  says  D. 
H.  Deniehy,  "  broke  fresh  and  glittering  in  a  thousand  atoms, 
as  the  phosphorescent  wave  of  these  southern  waters  atthe  stroke 
of  the  midnight  oar."  Of  Peter's  poetical  work  his  translations 
have  been  the  most  successful,  and  eminent  critics  have  declared 
that  his  version  of  the  ode  to  Cyrrha,  and  the  duet,  "  Horace  and 
Lydia,"  have  never  been  surpassed.  The  author  was  born  in 
Wales,  but  educated  at  Colchester  and  Bath.     In  early  man- 


426  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

hood  he  emigrated  to  Australia,  and  after  a  laborious  life  he 
•succumbed  to  that  most  terrible  of  all  diseases,  cancer,  and  was 
buried  on  the  9th  December  1879  in  the  Highgate  Cemetery. 
The  following  poem  was  written  at  the  time  of  the  Crimean 
War.] 


WHAT  WILL  THE  NEXT  NEWS  BE? 

For  a  while  tliere  is  a  hush, 
Silent  roll  the  thunder-clouds, 
On  they  come  in  frowning  crowds. 

Night  black  with  a  sulph'ry  flush — 
There  is  silence  deep  as  death, 
England  sternly  holds  her  breath  ; 
England's  heart  is  beating  fast, 
For  the  hour  is  come  at  last ! 

Long  the  storm  was  working  up, 
Now  its  levin-bolts  shall  drop. 
Yonder  thunder- clouds  that  loom 
With  an  ever-thickening  gloom, 
Hold  within  their  awful  womb 
England's  victory —  or  doom. 

There  is  pride  in  her  dark  eye — 
As  she  looks  upon  her  sons  ; 

There  is  shame,  too,  to  espy 

Who  they  be  that  guard  their  guns  : 
There  would  be  a  fear  for  those 
Who  have  sunk  beneath  their  woes, — 
Shrouded  in  Crimean  snows — 
But  the  Spartan  mother  knows 
She  is  close-watched  by  her  foes. 

This  is  not  the  time  to  weep, 

Their  fate  is  a  grief  too  deep 


RICHARD  ROIVE. 

For  the  idle  balm  of  tears  ; 
The  lioness  hath  missed  her  young — 
Yea,  and  the  lioness  hath  sprung 

Full  on  the  dastard  robbers'  spears ! 

Hark  !  what  means  that  dreadful  boom  ? 
Men  start  as  at  the  Day  of  Doom  1 
It  is  the  Day  of  Doom 

For  the  Fated  City  there. 
Moira's  hand  is  on  the  plough, 

Onward  comes  the  unerring  share, 
For  the  guns,  so  still  but  now. 

Belch  destruction  through  the  air. 
The  hour  hath  come,  the  destined  hour — 
The  hard  earth  quakes. 
The  granite  shakes, 
And  wall,  and  battlement,  and  tower 
Fall,  crushed  beneath  the  hurtling  shower. 

Shrill  scream  the  fifes,  loud  beat  the  drums, 
Yonder  the  assailing  army  comes  ! 
Fierce  as  a  wave  of  Phlegethon, 
That  many-nationed  band  rolls  on. 
But  few  shall  see  the  set  of  sun — 
What  reck  they,  so  their  work  be  done  1 

AVho  first  shall  reach 

The  yawning  breach, 

The  one  desire 
That  blends  those  thousands  into  one — 

Brethren  by  baptism  of  fire  ! 

Who  are  the  first  to  mount  the  wall  1 

Who  are  those  spectres  grim  and  tall, 

That  struggle  through  the  hail  of  ball. 

The  flash  of  lance  and  sword  1 

Our  brethren  these — the  lonely  ones,— 


428  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  remnant  of  proud  England's  sons ; 

The  shadows  whom  Want,  Pest,  and  War 

Have  spared  of  all  who  left  her  shore. 

Sworn  a  libation  stern  to  pour 
Upon  the  Kussian  sward  ! 

On  rush  the  Avengers  of  the  Dead, 

Whose  gallant  blood  in  vain  was  shed — • 
They  bear  a  requiem  in  that  tread, 
For  we  despise  the  paltry  lie 
That  Englishmen  will  e'er  stand  by 
When  glory  calls  on  them  to  die. 

No,  as  of  old,  foremost  of  all ; 

Onward  shall  press  the  "  thin  red  line," 
St.  George's  banner  first  shall  shine 

Above  the  leajruered  wall. 


JACK  RUGBY.     ' 

OLD  ARCHIE'S  LAST  CAMP. 

The  silence  is  brooding,  and  solemn  and  still : 

Twin-born  of  the  darkness  that  fetters  the  will ; 

A  silence  unbroken  by  aught  save  the  sound 

Of  the  weary-drawn  sighs  of  a  form  on  the  ground  ; 

The  long-looked-for  dawn  blushes  crimson  and  grey, 

And  the  heart  that  is  hopeless  would  fain  it  could  pray. 

The  sands  of  the  desert  flush  orange  and  gold, 

And  the  sun  in  his  glory  has  heavenward  rolled ; 

All  dewless  the  gum-boughs  hang  parched  from  the  trees, 

Unvisited  e'en  by  the  breathe  of  a  breeze ; 

Hills  upon  hills  of  the  loose  drifting  sands 

Lie  stretching  for  miles  in  a  dreary  expanse, 


jfACK  RUGBY.  429 

Hungry,  and  thirsty,  and  footsore,  and  old, 

O  !  sad  are  the  years  that  his  grey  liairs  liave  told  ; 

All  trackless  the  desert  lies  stretching  before 

The  eyes  of  "  old  Archie  "  grown  blighted  and  sore  ; 

He  drags  his  tired  feet  through  the  hot  burning  sand 

With  a  swag  on  his  back  and  a  stick  in  his  hand. 

The  bottle  he  carries  is  drainless  and  dry. 

And  all  he  can  do  is  to  lie  down  and  die ; 

No  parrot's  shrill  whistle,  no  magpie's  gay  song, 

As  weary  and  heartsore  he  staggers  along — 

iSTaught  there  but  solitude  rises  to  view, 

Not  even  the  glimpse  of  a  stray  kangaroo  ! 

But  slowly  before  his  mind's  thoughtful  eye 

The  follies  of  youth  he  can  clearly  descry, — 

The  gold  he  has  squandered,  the  years  he  has  spent. 

Bring  in  his  sorrow  no  gleam  of  content. 

Of  the  wild  drunken  revels,  what  a  harvest  each  bears, 

And  the  garnering  yields  to  him — nothing  but  tares ! 

He  pants  through  the  sand  in  the  hot  glaring  sun, 

"  Would  to  God !   would   to    God !    that   life's  journey 

were  done  ! 
But  dire  is  the  reckoning  that  speaks  of  the  cost 
And  shows  by  its  total  whose  soul  will  be  lost ! 
God  knows  I've  had  lessons  ! — where's  the  man  that  has 

not? 
And  this  is  the  end  which  the  teaching  has  brought ! 
Ah  well !  may  be  yet  I'm  as  good  as  the  best 
Who  make  of  religion  a  fine  parlour  guest 
And  turn  to  the  devil  what's  left  of  the  jest ! 
We  all  have  to  die,  and  perhaps  in  the  end 
I'll  stand  just  as  high  with  our  Father  and  Friend  ! 
I've  been  '  Archie  the  Wanderer,'  and  '  Archie  the  Tramji,* 
And  '  Archie  the  drunken  old  worthless  old  scamp  ; ' 
And  now  I'll  lie  down  here  and  take  ray  last  camp." 


430  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  low  desert  hills,  with  the  short  stunted  scrub, 

Unrelieved  by  the  beauty  of  one  flowering  shrub — ■ 

Are  molten  and  red  with  the  light  from  the  west, 

Where  the  sun  like  a  fire-ball  is  sinking  to  rest. 

Heartsore  and  weary  he  drops  from  his  back 

His  supperless  swag  on  the  dusty  track ; 

The  brown  withered  hands  from  the  wrinkled  brow 

Wipe  the  beads  of  death  and  starvation  now. 

"  Water  ! "  he  craves,  and  the  glistening  eye 

Betrays  tlie  fierce  struggle  before  he  can  die ; 

"  Water  !  "  he  moans.     Ah  !  never  a  drop 

Lies  within  miles  of  that  arid  spot ; 

The  blighting  wind  from  the  fiery  north 

AYaves  in  its  furnace  his  hair  back  and  forth ; 

The  sun  sets  at  last  in  a  blood-red  sea, 

And  the  old  tramp  dreams  of  Eternity. 

The  night  closes  round  him  all  dismal  and  dark. 

The  wind  from  the  northward  is  veering — and  hark  ! 

'Tis  the  song  of  the  curlew,  wild,  piercing,  and  shrill, 

Foretelling  the  storm  from  his  post  on  the  hill. 


All  bravely  belted,  and  clad  in  gold, 

Swathed  and  swaddled  rich  fold  on  fold, 

The  sun  from  his  sheathing  has  heavenward  rolled. 

Bright  tear-drops  of  rain  in  rivulets  run. 

And  glisten  like  pearls  in  the  rising  sun ; 

They  gleam  on  the  hair  of  the  silent  tramp, 

And  moisten  the  sand  in  his  last  long  camp ; 

They  fall  in  a  shower  from  the  dirty  swag, 

And  lie  in  the  folds  of  an  empty  bag ; 

They  roll  from  the  arms  to  the  finger-tips, 

And  in  mockery  lie  on  the  parted  lips. 

O  !  sear  old  age,  with  the  grace  gone  by, 

'Tis  a  sad,  sad  death  for  a  man  to  die. 


J.  SADLER.  .  431 

Unshrouded,  uncoffincd,  nnprayed  for,  unwept, 
Not  the  first  lost  dust  which  the  desert  has  kept. 


J.  SADLER. 

[Of  tlie  Savings  Bank  of  South  Australia,  Adelaide,  South  Australia. 
The  poem  quoted,  desci'ibing  the  great  event  of  South  Australia, 
appeared  in  the  Adelaide  Observer  under  the  noni-de-plume  of 
"Ab.  Original."  He  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to 
Australian  periodicals.] 

THE  PROCLAMATION  TREE. 

[The  colony  of  South  Australia  was  proclaimed  on  December  28, 
1836,  by  Captain  Hindmarsh,  R.N,  the  first  Governor,  ujider 
the  shadow  of  a  guin-tree.  Of  the  identity  of  this  tree  there 
appears  to  be  some  doubt.] 

"  Long  years  ago,  in  that  Gum-tree's  shade, 
I  stood  when  the  famous  speech  was  made ; 
Still  to  my  memory  strong  it  sticks, 
Though  that  was  in  eighteen  thirty-six; 
I'm  certain  of  its  identity — 
I  swear  it's  the  Proclamation  Tree  ! 

And  grieved  I  am  that  in  slow  decay 
The  peopjle  allow  it  to  fall  away ; 
Soon  not  a  wrack  of  it  will  remain 
To  mark  the  spot  on  that  sandy  plain. 
Relics  like  these  slioidd  protected  be — 
You  can't  mdlce  a  Proclamation  Tree." 

Some  correspondents  thus  write,  when,  lo  ! 
Another,  wlio  also  "  ought  to  know," 


432  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Informs  the  Editor  he  was  there, 
And  the  right  Gum  wasn't  old  and  bare ; 
"And  was  it  likely  they'd  choose,"  says  he, 
"  A  shadeless  Proclamation  Tree  1 " 


"I  remember  well  on  that  summer's  day 
The  sun  beat  down  with  a  blazing  ray, 
And  the  real  tree's  drooping  foliage  green 
Threw  a  grateful  shade  o'er  the  pleasant  scene. 
From  those  who've  written  I  disagree, 
This  isn't  the  Proclamation  Tree  ! " 

But  now  to  the  rescue  another  comes 
To  settle  the  claims  of  the  rival  gums. 
He's  certain  the  tree  was  old  and  bent. 
For  it  partly  upheld  Mr,  Gouger's  *  tent, 
And  he  had  a  little  refreshment  free 
Under  the  same  Proclamation  Tree. 

Another,  the  son  of  a  pioneer, 

Wishes  to  make  the  matter  clear. 

Says  he,  "  My  father  was  also  there. 

And  Pm  certain  he  told  me  the  Gum  was  bare ; 

And  often  he's  taken  me  down  to  see 

The  original  Proclamation  Tree." 

Ah !  Memory's  played  a  good  many  tricks 
Since  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-six. 
Some  cases,  likely,  have  gone  to  rust, 
And  it's  very  certain  that  some  one  must 
Get  lavishing  sentimentality 
Over  the  wrong  Proclamation  Tree  ! 

*  The  first  Colonial  Secretary. 


J.  SADLER.  433 

And  Death's  cold  finger  has  beckoned  away 
Nearly  all  who  stood  on  the  spot  that  day. 
They've  left  their  hardships  and  weary  toil — 
Gone  to  "  select "  on  a  richer  soil ; 
Their  tenure  will  there  have  a  fixity, 
Those  knights  of  the  Proclamation  Tree  ! 

No  Ridley  reaper  nor  double  plough 

They  need  to  work  on  the  holding  now, 

No  Goyder's  line  *  can  their  course  debar, 

But  they  settle  wherever  the  angels  are ; 

A  harvest  that  lasts  through  eternity 

For  the  boys  wdio  stood  under  the  Old  Gumtree  ! 

But  never,  0  never,  shall  be  forgot 
Those  pioneers,  though  their  bones  shall  rot! 
Grand  old  boys !     Though  the  tree  may  fall, 
And  the  relic-hunters  take  root  and  all, 
They  shall  live  as  long  as  the  colony, 
Those  knights  of  the  Proclamation  Tree  ! 

When  before  the  Great  White  Throne  there  stand 

The  Sheep  and  the  Goats  on  cither  hand, 

And  the  Shepherd's  Proclamation's  read 

Before  the  millions  of  risen  dead. 

His  "  Come,  ye  blessed  ! "  we  trust  shall  be 

For  those  knights  of  the  Proclamation  Tree  ! 

*  The  limit  of  the  agricultural  area,  north  of  which  the  rainfall 
is  small  and  uncertain. 


2  E 


434  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


EGBERT  SEALY.       ' 

[According  to  Mr.  Barton,  born  in  Ireland  1831  ;  went  out  to  New 
South  Wales  in  1S52  ;  became  one  of  the  first  "scholars"  of 
the  Sydney  University  ;  went  into  the  Civil  Service  ;  became 
a  clerk  in  the  Colonial  Secretary's  office  ;  died  in  1862. 

In  1859  published  a  small  volume  entitled  "Scraps" — a 
collection  of  miscellaneous  pieces,  principally  in  verse,  nearly 
all  humorous.] 

A  CABMAN'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

Tell  me,  Cabman — thou  hast  studied 

Human  nature  on  thy  stand — 
Is  there  any  truth  in  woman, 

Any  faith  in  plighted  hand  ? 

Slowly  putting  down  his  pewter, 

Thus  that  cabman  spoke  his  mind, — 

"  Gammon,  if  you  trust  such  cattle, 
That  they're  bolters,  you'll  soon  find." 

Cabman  mine,  your  words  are  bitter, 
Haply  wronged  in  love  you  speak, 

You  have  trusted —     "  jSTot  I,  blow  me  ! 
Trust  a  woman  1  trust  a  beak  ! " 

Bitter  fruit  of  observation, 

Sad  experience  sours  your  heart, 

But  thy  words  are  words  of  wisdom, 
Prythee  all  thy  lore  impart. 

"  Draw  it  mild,"  replied  the  Cabby, 

*'  And  I'll  tell  yer  wot  I  think. 
If  yer  wants  my  conversation, 

"Why,  you'd  better  stand  ray  drink." 


ROBERT  SEALY.  435 

Then  he  dipped  his  nose  in  porter, 

Sighed,  and  wiped  it  on  his  culF, 
And  expressed  a  firm  conviction, 

That  that  'ere  was  just  the  stufi". 

"Keep  gals  well  in  hand,"  he  added, 
"  Touch  'em  gently  on  the  raw, — 

Don't  be  gammoned  by  their  sawder, 
l^or  be  bullied  by  their  jaw." 


THE  PUBLICAN'S  DA  UGHTER. 

Than  the  beer  which  she  served, 

Her  complexion  was  clearer ; 
Than  the  price  which  she  charged 

For  that  beer,  she  was  dearer. 
And  stronger  than  spirits 

(For  spirits  they  water), 
AVas  my  love  for  fair  Ellen, 

The  Publican's  Daughter. 

Oh,  why  did  she  add 

To  my  score  on  the  shutter. 
And  tell  me  to  pay 

And  be — something'd  or  other  ? 
I  saw  at  a  glance 

She  was  not  what  I  thouglit  her, 
For  falser  than  fair 

Was  the  Publican's  Daughter. 

Alas  !  that  another 

^[y  pewter  is  filling  ! 
That  she  charged  one-and-fourpence 

Instead  of  a  shilling ! 


436  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Alas,  that  she  cheated  ! 

Alas,  that  I  caught  her  ! 
And  alas,  for  my  love 

For  the  Publican's  Daughter  ! 


TO  W.  M. 

You  should  have  lived  in  olden  time — 
The  golden  time  of  chivalry — 
When  knights  to  beauty  bent  the  knee, 
And  for  the  guerdon  of  a  glance 
Did  battle  with  the  sword  and  lance. 

Methinks  it  would  have  liked  you  well, 
Sitting  among  your  maidens  there, 
To  work  a  scarf  of  quaint  device, 
To  flash  in  many  a  foughten  field. 
Upon  the  breast  of  that  true  kniglit 
Who  held  you  fairest  of  the  fair. 

And,  had  he  fallen  on  distant  plain, 
Crying  your  name  with  latest  breath, 
You  would  have  said,  "He  met  his  death 
In  harness,  as  became  a  knight 
Doing  devoir  for  ladye  bright." 

I  trow  you  would  not  shed  a  tear, 

But,  sitting  in  your  castle  bower, 

With  steadfast,  haughty  face  would  sing 

An  ancient  lay  of  troubadour. 

Of  Lancelot  and  Bedivere, 

King  Arthur  and  Queen  Guinevere, 

Of  Knight  and  Squire,  of  helm  and  spear. 


SEDLEY.  437 

The  bower  maidens  would  wonder  all, 
Up-gazing  from  their  tapestrie, 
At  your  set  lip  and  tearless  eye  : 
But  in  your  turret  chamber  high, 
For  him  who  fell  I  wis  you'd  sigh, 
And  break  your  heart,  unseen,  and  die. 


SEDLEY. 
[Desires  to  maintain  the  incognito.] 

SILENCE. 

"What  can  we  say  when  the  heart  is  stirred 
To  its  deepest  depths  1  Ah,  never  a  word 
Can  our  lips  then  frame,  although  before 
They  had  ready  a  thousand  words,  and  more  ! 

"\^^lat  can  we  say  when  with  grief  and  woe 
Our  bosom  throbs,  and  our  eyes  o'erflow'? 
"We  know  that  words  which  we  then  might  speak 
"Would  only  mock  us,  because  so  weak. 

"What  can  we  say  Avhen  purest  joy 

And  happiness  keen,  without  alloy. 

Are  filling  our  souls  with  their  music  sweet. 

And  our  pulses  bound  with  the  heart's  quick  beat  1 

"What  can  we  say.  Ah,  what  indeed  1 
Do  thoughts  at  such  times  our  voices  need  1 
For  silence  interprets  our  hearts  so  well 
That  speech  is  not  needed  our  thoughts  to  tell. 


438  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


PATEICK  SHANAHAN. 

[Has  published  a  paper  volume,  The  Exile :  A  Poem  (Melbourne : 
H.  T.  Dwight).] 

ACACIA  CREEK. 

"  Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power, 
Calls  back  the  vanished  days  to  rapture  given, 
When  love  was  bliss,  and  beauty  formed  our  heaven." 

— Byron. 

Haunts  of  youth,  the  loved,  the  cherished,  let  me  look  on 

ye  once  more  ! 
Look  on  ye  and  feel  your  freshness,  as  I  felt  in  days  of 

yore— 
In  days  of  youth  and  gladness,  when  my  raptured  spirit 

first 
Learnt  the  lore  of  wild  and  woodland,  here  amidst  your 

beauties  nurst ; 
For  my  soul  is  sad  with  longing — sad  with  dreaming  of 

those  days, 
Bright  with  fleeting  gleams  of  beauty,  sweet  with  tones 

of  forest  lays — 
]^ays  of  unforgotten  pleasure,  nights  replete  with  magic  lore, 
Learnt  of  moonlight  and  of  starlight,  and  the  freshness 

nature  wore — 
Days  of  beauty,  nights  of  grandeur,  when  my  spirit  fain 

would  pierce 
Mystic  regions  following  fancy  wildly  o'er  the  imiverse — 
Joys,  gathered  as  flowers  are  gathered  by  the  pilgrims  of 

the  woods, 
Here   amidst    your    gay    recesses,    here    amongst    your 

solitudes — 
Have  sped  away,  and  left  me  mourning  for  a  past  that 

threw 
The  freshness  of  September  over  me  and  over  you. 


PATRICK  SHAN  AH  AN.  439 

Yonder,  where  the  uplands,  ri,sing  through  the  culd  grey 

niists  of  morn, 
Look  along  the  barren  moorlands,  brown,  and  damp,  and 

winter-worn. 
There,   where  flying  sleot  winds  muster;    there,   where 

vapours,  blue  and  strange, 
Sleep  for  ever  in  the  hollows  of  the  pine-wood  by  the 

grange. 
You  can  hear  this  creek's  tone  murmur,  see  it  winding  sad 

and  slow 
Through  the  vestas  of  the  woodland  that  leans  o'er  the 

dell  below  ; 
Till  it  stop  awhile  and  slumbers,  like  a  sleepy,  wayworn 

child. 
In   the    sedgy   hollow   yonder,   where   a   rocky   cairn    is 

piled. 
Ah  !  oft  there  when  night-time  gathered  all  its  gloom  from 

forest  heights, 
I  have  sat  me   down   to   ponder,   staring  at  the   village 

lights 
Gleaming  in  the  hazy  distance — while  my  fancy  painted 

fair 
Vision  of  a  future  greatness — lofty  castles  in  the  air ! 
And  I  rose  as  one  who  slumbers  later  through  the  morning 

hours. 
Grappling  for  the  moments  wasted  idly  plucking  fancy 

flowers, 
Then,  when  winter's  tempest  gathers  o'er  the  mountain 

peaks  beyond, 
And   the   bull-frog's  croak — storm-boding — echoes   from 

the  meadoAv  pond, 
I  have  watched  the  storm-clouds  muster,  and  a  speechless, 

rare  delight. 
Thrilled    my    bosom    as    they    thundered    through    the 

straitened  ways  of  night ! 


440  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Often,    too,    in   summer   evenings,    ^vllen   the   sun   was 

sinking  low, 
I  have  loitered  by  yon  bridge-side,  watching  shadows  come 

and  go 
On  the  wavy  grass  before  me,  when  the  light  breeze  sadly 

played. 
Sighing  like  a  passing  spirit  as  it  swept  along  the  glade 
There's  beauty  in  the  seasons,  in  the  changing  works  of 

God, 
Beauty   in   each   scene    of    Nature   howe'er    terrible   or 

wild, 
First   formed   of    all    Creation    she    is    Nature's   eldest 

child ! 
Beauty  !  child  of  light  and  shadow !  spirit  nor  of  earth 

nor  air, 
Prized,  and  yet  how  desecrated — spurned,  yet  sought  for 

everywhere, 
I  have  loved  thee  fondly  ever,  worshipped  every  scene 

of  thine. 
Till  the  soul  of  thy  existence  grew  to  be  a  part  of  mine 
In  the   wilds   and   wastes   of    Nature,  in   the   sky  with 

tempest  trackt, 
In  the  roar  of  wind  and  water,  in  the  booming  cataract ; 
In  the  dead  wan  leaf  that  lieth,  faltering  by  the  brawling 

brook 
(Torn  by  the  hand  of  Autumn  from  Nature's  universal 

book). 
In  the  dark  and  wrath  of  thunders,  in  the  roaring  of  the 

storm 
"We  behold  and  feel  the  grandeur  of  thy  far  pervading 

form; 
Even  though  betimes  we  see  thee,  clouded  with  the  look 

of  grief — 
Yet  read  we  not  a  moral  lesson  in  the  falling  of  the 

leaf? 


PATRICK  SHANAHAN.  441 

In  the  hidden  -works  of  Nature  where  Kight  walked  with 

step  serene) 
O'er  the  lonely  widths  of  forest  where  man's  foot  hath 

seldom  been ; 
In  the  haunts  of  wind  and  water — here  and  there  amongst 

the  woods, 
Thus,  and  thus,  I've  looked  upon  thee,  in  the  fulness  of 

my  soul, 
Thus,  and  thus,  I've  looked  upon  thee,  when  a  host  of 

stars  shone  bright. 
And  tlie  earth  beneath  me  slumbered  in  the  dark  embrace 

of  Night ! 
And,  as  the  weary  Arab  faltering  in  the  burning  desert, 

turns 
His  fainting  soul  to  Mecca,  thinks  of  home,  and  yearning 

mourns, 
So  I,  who  totter  sadly,  grieving  thus  unsatisfied, 
Turn  me  to  the  Creek  out  yonder,  with  a  soul  recurring 

pride, 
Thinking  of  those  days — far  vanished — dreaming  of  the 

perished  past, 
Whose  remembrance,  like  an  echo,  haunts  me  closely  to 

the  last. 
When  I  shared  a  youth  of  pleasure,  born  of  bliss  that 

evermore 
Flings  a  halo  of  remembrance  round  the  bright  blest  days 

of  yore ! 
Thoughts,  like  flashes  from  a  torchlight,  straying  here  and 

there  through  the  gloom, 
Come  to  me  and  seems  to  whisper — like  a  voice  from  out 

the  tomb — 
Memories  of  a  sacred  boyhood,  when  my  soul  was  full 

of  fire. 
And  the  form  of  Nature's  beauty  taught  my  senses  to 

admire 


442  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

When  my  faith  was  stronger,  and  my  hope  in  love  was 

great, 
Ere  my  soul  to  sorrow  yielding  sunk  at  last  beneath  its 

weirfht. 


All  !  but  now  when  darkness  gathers,  and  I  sit  beside  the 

hearth 
Lacking  all  the  soul  of  boyhood,  wanting  all  its  bliss  and 

mirth, 
Saddening  memories   crowd  upon  me  like   some  spirit's 

sigh  of  pain, 
Breathed  in  the  windy  moments  'mid  the  pauses  of  the 

rain  ! 
And  I  fain  would  soar  in  spirit  to  some  far-off  scene  of 

That  touched  me  with  its  beauty,  or  thrilled  my  senses 

when  a  boy ; 
And  for  ever  feel  the  freshness  which  I  shared  again  this 

week 
As  I  roamed  alone  at  even  out  along  Acacia  Creek. 


WILLIAM  SHAKP. 

[As  poet,  essayist,  critic,  and  journalist,  one  of  the  most  prominent 
figures  in  literary  London.  The  poem  quoted,  though  not  by 
an  Australian,  was  written  in  Australia  ;  and  except  Gordon's, 
and  "A  Voice  from  the  Bush,"  no  poem  written  in  Australia 
has  achieved  such  a  wide  popularity  in  England.] 

THE  LAST  ABORIGINAL. 

I  SEE  him  sit,  wild-eyed,  alone, 

Amidst  gaunt,  spectral,  moonlit  gums — 

lie  waits  for  death  :  not  once  a  moan 
From  out  his  rigid,  fixt  lips  comes ; 


IVILLIAM  SHARP.  443 

Ilis  lank  hair  fulls  adown  a  face 

Haggard  as  any  Avave-worn  stone, 
^\nd  in  bis  eyes  I  dimly  trace 
The  memory  of  a  vanished  race. 

The  lofty  ancient  gum-trees  stand, 
Each  grey  and  ghostlj''  in  the  moon, 

The  giants  of  an  old  strange  land 
That  was  exnltant  in  its  noon 

"When  all  our  Europe  was  o'erturned 
With  deluge  and  with  shifting  santl, 

With  earthquakes  that  the  hills  inurned 

And  central  fires  that  fused  and  burned. 

The  moon  moves  slowly  through  the  vast 
And  solemn  skies  ;  the  night  is  still, 

Save  when  a  warrigal  springs  past 
With  dismal  howl,  or  when  the  shrill 

Scream  of  a  parrot  rings  which  feels 
A  twining  serpent's  fangs  fixed  fast. 

Or  when  a  grey  opossum  squeals, 

Or  long  iguana,  as  it  steals 

From  bole  to  bole,  disturbs  the  leaves : 
But  hushed  and  still  he  sits — who  knows 

That  all  is  o'er  for  him  who  weaves 
With  inner  speech,  malign,  morose, 

A  curse  upon  the  whites  who  came 
And  gathered  up  his  race  like  sheaves 

Of  thin  wheat,  fit  but  for  the  Hame — 

^MlO  shot  or  spurned  them  without  shame. 

He  knows  he  shall  not  see  again 

The  creeks  whereby  the  lyre-birds  sing- 
He  shall  no  more  upon  the  plain. 

Sun-scorched,  and  void  of  water-spring. 


444  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Watch  the  dark  cassowaries  sweep, 

In  startled  flight,  or,  with  spear  lain 
In  ready  poise,  glide,  twist,  and  creep 
"Where  the  brown  kangaroo  doth  leap. 

jS'o  more  in  silent  dawns  he'll  wait 
By  still  lagoons,  and  mark  the  flight 

Of  black  swans  near :  no  more  elate 
Whirl  high  the  boomerang  aright 

Upon  some  foe :  he  knows  that  now 
He  too  must  share  his  race's  night — 

He  scarce  can  know  the  white  man's  plough 

Will  one  day  pass  above  his  brow. 

Last  remnant  of  the  Austral  race 

He  sits  and  stares,  with  failing  breath  : 

The  shadow  deepens  on  his  face, 

For  midst  the  spectral  gums  waits  death : 

A  dingo's  sudden  howl  swells  near — 
He  stares  once  with  a  startled  gaze. 

As  half  in  wonder,  half  in  fear, 

Then  sinks  back  on  his  unknown  bier. 


THE  SINGING  SHEPHERD. 
TO  ONE  IN  ENGLAND. 

"I  SEND  to  you" 
Songs  of  a  Southern  Isle, 
Isle  like  a  flower 
In  warm  seas  low  lying : 

Songs  to  beguile 
Some  wearisome  hour, 
When  Time's  tired  of  flying. 


THE  SINGING  SHEPHERD.  445 

Songs  which  were  sung, 

To  a  rapt  listener  lying 

In  sweet  lazy  hours, 

Where  wild-birds'  nests  swung, 

And  winds  came  a-sighing 

In  Nature's  own  bowers. 

Songs  which  trees  sung, 
By  summer  winds  swayed 
Into  rhythmical  sound ; 
Sweet  soul-bells  sung 
Through  the  Ngaio's  green  shade. 
Unto  one  on  the  ground. 

Songs  from  an  island 
Just  waking  from  sleeping 
In  history's  morning ; 
Songs  from  a  land 
Where  night  shadows  creep 
Wlien  your  day  is  dawning. 

O  songs,  go  your  way. 

Over  seas,  over  lands, 

Though  friendless  sometimes. 

Fear  not,  comes  a  day 

When  the  world  will  clasp  hands 

With  my  wandering  rhymes. 


"  GOOD-NIGHT— GOOD-REST." 

Good-night  !     Good-rest ! 
My  pretty,  pretty  flower,   - 
Too  late's  confest 
You  held  the  power 


44'^  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

For  bliss  or  woe  in  hands  to  dust  fast  turning ; 
Heedless  you  lie  indifferent  to  tlie  burning, 
(3f  this  crushed  heart  you're  silently  iuuruing, 
This  bitter  hour. 

Good-night !     Good-rest ! 

Dream  happy  dreams 

In  visions  blest, 

Lit  by  celestial  beams. 
But  from  the  trackless  way  which  you  now  go 
Look  back  to  those,  whom  once  you  cared  to  know, 
And  watch  how  fare  those  grieving  friends  below. 

Your  soul  esteems. 

Dear  wandering  soul, 

Impatient  of  delay, 

You  gently  stole 

From  out  warm  life  away, 
The  unknown  held  for  you,  my  own,  more  charms 
Than  the  warm  shelter  of  these  human  arms. 
While  I,  who  cannot  shield  you  now  from  harms, 

Break  down — this  way. 

Pale  flower,  are  you  aware, 

While  here  you  lie, 

That  I  could  dare 

This  hour  to  die  1 
And  in  your  wandering  follow  you, 
Your  future  home  of  bliss  to  view. 
Though  Lucifer  himself  soon  drew 

Me  from  on  high. 

To  win  such  perfect  sleep, 
Why,  one  must  die — 
Mortality  sings  deep 
Her  lullaby. 


THE  SINGING  SHEPHERD.  447 

Though  this  crushed  flower  must  now  be  downward  thrust, 
Away  from  dews  and  sun  in  earth  to  rust, 
Spirit,  whose  home  was  once  this  precious  dust, 
Pass  me  not  by. 


"ADIEU." 

0  Shepherds  !  take  ray  crook  from  me, 

For  I  no  longer  here  can  stay  ! 

There  comes  a  whisper  from  the  sea, 

Calling  my  soul  from  you  away  ; 

Friends  of  my  heart !  long  tried  and  true, 

0  let  me  leave  my  crook  with  you. 
An  idle  shepherd  have  I  lain, 
Dreaming  while  sheep-dogs  bark  in  vain, 
Or  chasing  rhymes  to  wreath  the  strain 
Which  from  sweet  musing  grew. 

Above  the  stars  I  drift  in  thought, 
Melodious  murmurings  in  my  ears, 
As  though  the  upborne  spirit  caught 
Soft  echoes  from  the  higher  spherea 
But  see  !     Far  up  the  azure  height, 
Bright  Sirius  hails  me  with  his  light ! 
My  soul,  impatient  of  delay, 
Rides  on  the  wings  of  thought  away, 
^ly  heart  alone  with  you  can  stay — 
My  Shepherds  dear — good-night  ! 


448  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


CHAELES  ALLAN  SHEEAKD. 

[A  solicitor  at  Charlton,  Victoria.  Has  not  yet  published  a  volume, 
but  has  contributed  some  of  the  very  best  poems  which  have 
appeared  in  Australian  periodicals.] 

AN  G  ELI  QUE. 

O'er  a  broad  low  brow  of  a  type  Ionian, 

Eippled  tresses,  dark  as  the  Dor^-drawn 
Weird  waves  of  the  night  on  Poe's  Shore  Plutonian  • 

But  a  light,  like  the  first  faint  flash  of  dawn, 
From  the  far  sea-depths  of  her  eyes  arisen, 
Set  the  sunbeams  free  from  their  azure  prison, 

To  dance  in  the  dimples  her  laughter  drilled ; 
As  though  time  were  harmless  her  cheeks  to  Avizen, 

And  the  warmth  of  her  youth  could  ne'er  be  chilled. 

With  her  lifted  lashes  of  dusk,  unveiling 

The  blue  and  the  beauty  that  shone  below ; 
With  her  lips  in  their  deep  rich  crimson  paling, 

Her  clear  skin  flushed  with  a  faint  pink  glow ; 
And  her  face  unfurrowed  by  pride  or  passion, 
And  figure  unfettered  by  fear  of  fashion, 

She  made  such  a  picture,  in  life  portrayed, 
As  the  sun  of  the  south  most  loves  to  flash  on — 

A  lovely  and  lovable  Austral  maid. 

By  the  bending  boughs,  where  the  ripe  fruit"  glistened 

In  royal  purple  on  a  leafy  throne, 
Where  the  song-birds  lingered  awhile  and  listened 

To  her  sweet  voice  echoing  back  their  own. 
From  the  heat  of  the  day  she  found  a  haven, 
Where  the  branches  shade  on  the  grass  was  graven, 

And  the  fallen  mulberry  monarchs  lay. 


CHARLES  ALLAN  SHERARD.  449 

Blood-staining  the  green  of  the  turf  close-shaven, 
As  many  have  done  of  the  kings  of  clay. 

And  the  snatches  of  song  she  trilled  and  carolled 

Cleft  their  tuneful  way  through  the  drowsy  air, 
To  the  stuffy  room  "where  her  brothers  quarrelled, 

Like  rival  dealers  at  a  cattle  fair; 
And  the  bird-like  notes  even  stilled  their  clamour, 
"While  the  tutor  dozed  o'er  the  open  grammar, 

And  filled  them  with  hatred  of  most  things  Greek — 
Dreaming  may  be,  of  the  grace  and  the  glamour 

Of  the  form  and  the  face  of  Angelique. 


"Where  the  hounds  threw  off,  as  the  last  cigar,  lit 

By  the  cheery  master,  was  tossed  away — 
The  dark  habit  glanced  through  the  ranks  of  scarlet, 

And  well  to  the  front,  on  her  gallant  grey, 
Kode  the  stranger  maid  of  the  beauty  peerless, 
"With  a  seat  as  sure  and  a  heart  as  fearless 

As  aught  in  the  mould  of  a  sportsman  cast, 
To  the  merry  music  of  Scamp  and  Cheerless, 

And  the  pack  that  followed  the  leaders  fast. 

And  her  blue  eyes  danced  with  the  fun  and  pleasure, 

And  her  cheeks  grew  warm  in  the  tingling  breeze  : 
"WTiile  her  brothers  trembled,  to  see  the  treasure 

To  their  care  confided  play  pranks  like  these ; 
But  as  neither  the  knock-kneed  gelding  bony 
Nor  his  fat  companion — the  Shetland  pony, 

Could  gallop  or  jump ;  from  her  escorts'  sight 
She  passed  o'er  a  rise  somewhat  steep  and  stony. 

Not  more  than  a  chain  to  the  master's  right. 

Though  the  run  was  long  and  the  falls  were  many, 
And  a  few  rode  round  to  a  friendly  gate, 

2  F 


450  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POETS. 

And  steeds  that  had  cost  them  a  pretty  penny, 
Failed  sadly  to  carry  their  rider  straight ; 

Yet  the  good  old  grey  showed  no  sign  of  failing, 

When  the  scarlet  coats  in  the  rear  were  tailing, 
And  leap  after  leap  in  his  stride  was  ta'en, 

Till  the  finish  came  by  the  deer-park  paling — • 
And  the  girl  was  there  and  the  fox  was  slain. 


With  the  "brush"  that  the  master  gave,  she  bought  her 

Father's  forgiveness — 'twas  easily  done — 
"  On  a  son  of  '  Panic '  how  could  your  daughter 

Do  anything  else  1 " — and  his  grace  was  won  ; 
And  his  frown  fled  fast,  and  his  kiss  came  faster ; 
And  he  as  a  sportswoman  thenceforth  classed  her. 

And  thrice  at  the  hunt-club  dinner  that  week, 
This  toast  in  silence  was  drunk  by  the  master — 

"  To  the  bonny  blue  eyes  of  Ang^lique." 


In  the  lofty  hall  was  the  lamplight  streaming 

O'er  the  walls,  bedizened  with  flags  and  flowers, 
And  the  spray  of  the  gold  and  jewels  gleaming 

On  the  dance-sea,  surging  for  hours  and  hours ; 
And,  midst  waltz-waves,  rolling  in  rhythmic  motion. 
She  swept  with  the  grace  of  the  bird  of  ocean ; 

And  many  an  eye  in  the  ball-room  chose 
To  follow  naught  else  with  the  same  devotion. 

As  the  dark  head  crowned  with  the  one  red  rose. 


But  her  father's  eyes  spake  of  sorrow  deathless, 
In  spite  of  the  glow  of  a  father's  pride. 

As  she  stayed  by  his  chair  one  minute  breathless, 
To  rest  from  the  rush  of  the  headlong  tide ; 


CHARLES  ALLAN  SHERARD.  451 

For  memories  rose  that  he  could  not  smother ; 
And  the  joy  in  her  eyes  recalled  another 

From  the  ghostly  days  of  his  dancing  age, 
And  the  girl  for  a  moment  seemed  her  mother, 

And  his  life-book  back-turned  many  a  page. 

And  a  tutor,  scorning  his  varied  learning, 

Vowed  the  fruits  of  knowledge  were  far  from  sweet, 
As  he  sat  in  his  lonely  corner  yearning 

For  a  dancer's  ear  and  a  dancer's  feet, 
As  more  precious  gifts  than  Minerva  showered 
On  the  favoured  ones  with  her  wisdom  dowered, 

And  a  master  of  foxhounds  played  at  "loo" 
With  a  glance  at  the  ballroom  somewhat  soured. 

As  the  whirling  forms  past  the  doorway  flew. 

And  ever  she  danced,  while  the  crowd  diminished, 

And  the  cabs  and  carriages  rolled  away ; 
Her  spirit  ne'er  flagged  till  the  fun  was  finished 

And  the  band  from  weariness  ceased  to  play. 
And  the  men  who  met  in  the  club-room  later 
To  the  sore  distress  of  the  sleepy  waiter, 

Seemed  with  single  voice  from  one  heart  to  speak. 
When   they   vowed   through    the   smoke-rings    growing 
greater 

The  belle  of  the  season  was  Ang^lique. 

While  the  surgeons  worked  midst  the  soldiers  stricken 

With  the  deadly  shot  or  the  cruel  steel ; 
And  hearts  of  the  stoutest  were  fain  to  sicken. 

And  the  heads  of  the  coolest  were  wont  to  reel 
At  the  sounds  they  heard,  and  the  sights  that  lit  on 
Their  eyes,  in  the  halls  where  the  strong  lay  smitten. 

With  an  angel-pity  a  woman  came 


453  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Unto  Austral's  sons  and  the  sons  of  Britain, 
Who  had  fought  together  and  fared  the  same. 

And  many  a  pang  for  the  time  was  banished 

'JS'eath  the  tender  touch  of  her  soothing  hand : 
And  the  dying  prayed,  ere  their  spirits  vanished 

To  a  rest  where  no  warring  armies  stand. 
With  a  fervour  greater  tlian  priest  or  preacher. 
That  never  an  ill  upon  earth  might  reach  her, 

Nor  storms  ever  brealc  o'er  the  cherished  head 
Of  the  kindest  nurse  and  the  gentlest  teacher 

That  ever  yet  sat  by  a  sick  man's  bed. 

And  many  a  man  who  was  weak  grew  stronger 

In  the  light  that  shone  from  her  watchful  eyes ; 
And  longed  for  release  from  his  pain  no  longer, 

But  looked  upon  life  as  a  thing  to  prize 
For  the  sake  of  her  who  with  death  had  striven. 
Till  the  grim  foe  far  from  his  prey  was  driven, 

And  'midst  Austral's  wounded  chivalry  lay 
A  master  of  hounds,  to  whom  she  had  given 

A.  promise — redeemed  at  a  later  day. 

And  a  soldier  brave  who  had  shed  a  lustre 

O'er  the  Southern  Cross,  to  a  comrade  said : 
"  Though  the  Gaul  may  sneer,  or  the  Russian  bluster, 

The  breed  of  the  Briton  is  not  yet  dead ; 
For  on  either  side  of  the  ocean  water. 

She  has  sons  in  plenty  like  those  we  have  brought 
her ; 

And  should  they  for  mothers  of  heroes  seek, 
Austral  and  Briton  boast  many  a  daughter 

As  true  to  her  colours  as  Ang^lique," 


CHARLES  ALLAN  SHERARD.  453 

HER  KNIGHT. 

From  the  cottage  girt  with  the  garden  gay, 

And  garbed  with  the  ivy-green, 
As  the  dawn  beguiled  tlie  sober  grey 
Of  the  early  morn  with  its  shining  ray, 
Through  the  purple  vineyard  she  made  her  way — 

A  sorrowful  way,  I  ween  ! 

For  her  brow  Avas  clouded,  her  soft  cheeks  white. 

And  her  dark  eyes  seemed  to  blaze, 
Through  the  tremulous  tears,  like  islets  of  light 
On  silvery  lakes — and  no  smile  sun-bright 
Round  her  lips  rippled,  the  birds  to  incite 

To  warble  their  sweetest  lays. 

She  heeded  them  not ;  though  she  loved  to  hear 

Their  cliirruping,  yestermorn  : 
For  the  hour  of  parting  was  drawing  near. 
From  one  she  had  loved  for  many  a  year ; 
And  the  sad  heart  hearkened,  with  thankless  ear, 

To  the  songs  of  the  glad  heart  born. 

And  the  shapely  figure  enriched  with  grace 

That  never  a  grief  could  steal. 
Through  the  gateway  strolled  to  the  trysting-place, 
Where  kisses  were  rained  on  her  girlish  face, 
Till  the  fallen  tears  left  ne'er  a  trace 

"Where  his  lips  had  set  their  seal. 

"  From  houses  and  lands  I  am  doomed  to  part ; 

But  both  may  be  won  again  ; 
For  fortune  and  fame,  in  the  world's  wide  mart, 
May  be  bought  by  work ;  and  if  brave  thou  art, 
Who  vows  thou  shalt  never  be  mine,  dear  heart, 

Will  find  that  his  vows  are  vain. 


454  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

My  fathers  were  knights  in  the  olden  time, 

And  fought  for  their  ladies  fair ; 
And  though  birth  be  holden  almost  a  crime 
By  the  worldlings  here,  when  the  church-bells  chime 
And  the  only  God  is  Mammon  sublime — 

His  projihetj  the  millionaire — 

Yet  the  blood  of  my  race  runs  faster  when 

Defeat  hath  such  bitter  cost. 
I  must  hie  me  out  to  the  haunts  of  men 
To  struggle,  though  not  as  my  sires  did  then 
With  the  trusty  sword,  but  with  brain  and  pen, 

Ere  ever  thy  love  be  lost." 

So  quoth  he,  folding  her  unto  his  breast 

To  read  in  her  soulful  eyes, 
That  the  maiden's  doubtings  were  stilled  to  rest, 
And  the  brave  little  heart  feared  not  the  test 
Of  the  courage  of  him  she  loved  best 

Of  all  men  under  the  skies. 

She  kissed  him  thrice  on  his  sunburnt  brow, 

And  thrice  on  his  lips  firm-set ; 
And  whispered,  "  I'll  never  forswear  my  vow ; 
To  my  uncle's  will  I  shall  never  bow ; 
For  a  brave  true  Knight  is  my  master  now : 

Fear  naught,  I  shall  never  forget." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  faltered — and  turning  aside, 

Drew  forth,  from  her  heaving  breast. 
The  tress  she  had  severed  last  night  to  hide 
For  the  man  who  might  now  have  claimed  his  brido 
Save  for  friendship  closely  to  fraud  allied 
By  her  uncle  past-professed. 


CHARLES  ALLAN  SHERARD.  455 

"  God  speed  thee,  ruy  darling  ! " — what  words  can  tL-il 

When  soul  unto  soul  cleaves  fast, 
The  anguish  of  heart  bidding  heart  farewell. 
And  of  lips  for  the  last  time  linked  ? — Short  spell 
Of  a  glimpse  of  heaven,  and  taste  of  hell, 

Too  sweet,  to  bitter  to  last ! 


Like  a  fairy-queen,  with  the  flowers  around, 

In  her  cool  white  morning  gown. 
Enthroned  on  the  garden-seat  that  crowned 
The  grassiest  knoll  in  the  pleasure-ground, 
She  eagerly  listened  to  hear  the  sound 

Of  galloping  from  the  town. 

By  the  rose-bed  yellow,  and  white,  and  red, 

The  prize  of  her  tender  care, 
With  a  gold-straw  hat  on  her  golden  head, 
And  bunches  of  blossoms  her  lap  o'erspread. 
She  smiled  to  herself  at  the  awful  dread 

She  felt  in  the  days  that  were. 

For  the  lonely  years  were  ended  at  last. 

At  the  altar  of  success 
Her  uncle  had  worshipped  :  his  vows  were  cast 
To  the  winds  ;  and  his  breath  had  ceased  to  blast 
The  heart-planted  love  of  the  dim  dead  past. 

That  flourished  nevertheless. 

And  her  Knight  had  been  brave  as  knights  of  yore, 

And  carved  his  fortune  and  fame 
From  the  world-strife,  holden  in  scorn  before, 
For  the  sake  of  the  hand  for  which  he  swore 
To  win  back  his  houses  and  lands  once  more, 

The  li'^ht  of  his  life  to  claim. 


456  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  birds  more  sweetly  than  ever  that  morn, 

Sang  lightsome  lyrics  of  love  ! 
And  the  rarest  scents  through  the  air  were  borne 
From  garden,  and  vineyard,  and  fields  of  corn, 
"Where  the  gold  sheaves  glittered  to  greet  the  dawn 

That  blushed  in  the  blue  above. 

And  the  roses  rustled,  and  green  leaves  swayed 

To  the  soft  wind's  whispered  word — 
As  it  seemed  to  her — how  happy  a  maid 
Was  blest  with  a  love  that  never  would  fade 
In  life  or  death,  in  sunshine  or  shade — 
But,  what  were  those  sounds  she  heard  1 

Echoes  of  galloping  hoofs  on  the  ground — • 
Her  dusky  eyes  gleamed  with  light : 

And  the  tell-tale  blood  through  the  fair  skin  flowed 

And  he  leapt  from  his  horse,  and  onward  strode, 

Till  the  old  caresses  anew  bestowed 
Made  welcome  her  loyal  Knight. 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS. 

When  a  man,  whether  master  or  menial. 
Of  his  talents  hath  given  the  best 

To  the  task,  to  the  taste  uncongenial, 
Can  the  worth  of  his  work  be  assessed 
Ere  he  reaches  his  ultimate  rest  1 

Of  all  animals  most  to  be  pitied 
Are  the  biped  possessors  of  souls 

To  their  trades  or  professions  misfitted, 
Fate-turned  from  their  natural  goals, 
Square  pegs  thrust  in  circular  holes. 


CHARLES  ALLAN  SHERARD.  457 

Oft  the  parsons  who  preach  from  the  pulpit, 
And  the  lawyers  who  wrangle  in  court, 

And  the  mimes  who  make  merry  the  full  pit, 
Their  gowns  or  their  motley  have  bought 
With  hearts  by  old  yearning  distraught. 

Though  the  clapping  and  cheering  be  frantic. 

Yet  the  heart  of  the  actor  may  ache, 
(AVhile  the  gods  are  applauding  each  antic) 

At  the  law-fount  his  life-thirst  to  slake, 

And  the  stage  for  the  forum  forsake. 

So  the  preacher  who  praises  the  glory 
Of  peace  may  be  martially  souled. 

And  have  dreamt  of  the  battle-field  gory, 
And  have  yearned  for  the  battle-cry  bold, 
Where  the  gun-smoke  the  squadrons  enfold. 

And  the  lawyer,  while  he's  conning  over 
The  straws  to  be  split  for  his  fees, 

!Maybe  longs  for  the  life  of  a  rover, 
Far  away  from  such  studies  as  these, 
On  the  breast  of  the  storm-ridden  seas. 

But  the  end  crowns  the  w^ork  of  poor  preachers. 
And  of  lawyers  and  players  in  shoals, 

Whether  round  pegs  or  square  pegs,  most  creatures 
Find  their  rest  in  more  close-fitting  holes, 
When  the  death-bell  its  melody  tolls. 


458  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


HER  MOTHER'S  GLASS. 

"  Thou  art  thy  mother's  glass,  and  she  in  thee 
Calls  back  the  lovely  April  of  her  prime." 

— Shakespeare  :  Son)ict. 

She's  in  her  grave,  and  I  am  grey ; 
And  yet  it  seems  but  yesterday 

That  Adela  and  I 
Through  flower-crowned  meads  together  passed, 
To  where  the  willow-tears  were  cast, 
From  drooping  boughs  of  golden  green, 
On  waters  silver-grey  between 
The  river  banks  of  crumbling  clay — 
Since  then  'tis  twenty  years,  they  say  ; 

How  time  has  galloped  by  ! 

I  mind  me  how  she  told  the  tale, 
Whose  telling  made  my  cheeks  grow  pale 

Despite  my  stubborn  pride. 
How  one  afar  had  right  to  claim 
What  I  had  yearned  for  more  than  fame, 
Than  power  or  wisdom,  gold  or  land, 
Her  little  fragile  blue-veiled  hand. 
'Twas  not  for  me  to  rant  and  rail ; 
I  vowed  my  friendship  ne'er  should  fail, 

Whatever  may  betide. 

Mine  was  the  fault,  if  fault  there  bo, 
In  loving  one  not  fancy  free  ; 

For  she  was  no  coquette — 
She  never  knew,  unless  she  guessed. 
The  secret  that  I  ne'er  confessed ; 
And  I  had  known,  though  she  knew  not, 
I  knew  before  she  told  me,  what 


CHARLES  ALLAN  SHERARD.  459 

She  spake  of  'noath  the  willow  tree — 
May  be,  from  kindly  thought  for  me — 
I  like  to  think  so  jet. 


A  score  of  years  has  taken  flight 
Since  then,  and  I  shall  greet  to-night 

The  child  she  never  clasped — 
The  Adela  who  never  knew 
The  loving  soul  that  upward  flew, 
AVhen  life  was  yielded  up  for  life, 
And  husband  mourned  for  loss  of  wife, 
And  she,  his  first-born,  saw  the  light, 
A  robber  in  her  father's  sight 

Of  treasures  unsurpassed. 

They  say  she's  like  her  mother,  too, 
With  deep-brown  eyes — but  not  so  true 

And  tender,  I  apprise  ; 
And  gold-brown  hair — with  less  of  gold 
And  more  of  brown  I  have  foretold ; 
Like,  yet  unlike,  more  self-possessed  ; 
!^^o^e  worldly-wise,  more  richly  dressed, 
T*[y  fancy  pictures  her  ;  while  you, 
"Who've  seen  her,  smile — well,  I  shall  view 

The  girl  with  kindly  eyes. 


"With  less  of  gold  and  more  of  brown," 
One  surmise,  shattered,  stumbles  down  ; 

She  has  her  mother's  hair 
Knotted  and  wreathed  the  self-same  Avay, 
As  golden-tinged  as  mine  is  grey ; 
Her  mother's  smile  shines  on  her  lips 
Like  sun  escaping  from  eclipse, 


46o  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Her  pale,  pure  loveliness  to  crown. 
"  More  richly  drest,"  forsooth — her  gown 
Is  plain  as  she  is  fair. 

"More  worldly  wise,  more  self-possessed," 
Fade,  foolish  fancies,  with  the  rest  I 

Despite  her  father's  pelf, 
As  artless  in  her  maiden  youth, 
As  fearless,  frank,  and  filled  with  trutli. 
And  hatred  for  the  mean  and  false, 
As  rich  in  virtues,  poor  in  faults. 
As  was  her  mother,  I  attest. 
Is  Adela,  my  honoured  guest — 

She  seems  her  mother's  self. 

Fool !  to  have  deemed  her  otherwise — 
Methinks  she  is  as  worthy  prize 

As  knights  did  e'er  believe 
Worth  fighting  for,  when  men  did  fight, 
"When  mettle  and  not  wealth  was  rifdit. 
And  knightly  spurs  and  knightly  lance 
Were  not  the  guerdon  of  finance. 
Can  the  dead  unto  life  arise  1 
Her  mother's  soul  seemed,  through  her  eyes. 

To  welcome  mine  this  eve. 

"  Less  tender  eyes,"  I  said  this  morn ; 
It  must  be,  when  the  child  was  born. 

The  mother-soul  was  caught, 
Once  more  upon  the  earth  to  dwell, 
Cased  in  a  perfect  outward  shell ; 
For  Adela  the  child  yet  seems 
The  Adela  of  all  my  dreams, 
As  though  the  love  for  whom  I  mourn, 

And  twenty  years  be  naught. 


PERCY  F.  SINNETT.  461 

"  Yes  !  yea  !  yes  !  "  is  tlie  bell's  refrain, 
From  days  beyond  long  years  of  pain, 

My  youth  returns  to-day  ; 
And,  though  a  score  of  lovers  rave, 
Adela  gives  mc  all  I  crave, 
Adela's  self  my  home  to  bless, 
Freely  given  witli  whispered  "yes" — 
All  the  love  the  mother  had  slain, 
Is,  by  the  child,  revived  again, 

"What  will  her  father  say  1 


PEKCY  F.  SINNETT. 

[This  promising  young  Australian  was  born  at  Norwood,  South 
Australia,  lived  chiefly  near  Melbourne,  and  died  at  North 
Adelaide,  South  Australia,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-two 
years  nine  months.  A  cold  settled  on  his  lungs  and  the  cough 
brought  on  hemorrhage,  which  proved  fatal.  The  fallowing 
loem  is  interesting,  as  having  been  written  when  the  author 
was  only  eighteen,  on  the  loss  of  the  ill-fated  2'uvarna,  and  as 
coming  from  a  pen  that  is  now  still,  lie  was  a  well-knuwn 
writer  of  political  poems.] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   WILD  STORM-WAVES. 

Ou,  ye  wild  waves,  shoreward  dashing, 

"What  is  your  tale  to-day  1 
O'er  the  rocks  your  white  foam  splashing, 

While  the  moaning  wind  your  spray 

Whirls  heaveuAvards  away 
in  the  mist  ? 


462  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Have  ye  heard  the  timbers  crashing 
Of  the  good  ship  out  at  sea  1 

Seen  the  masts  the  dank  ropes  lashing, 
While  the  sailors  bend  the  knee 
And  vainly  call  on  Heaven 
To  assist  ? 


Oil,  ay  !  we've  seen  and  heard — 
Oh,  ay  !  we've  heard  and  seen 

More  than  ever  you  could  gather — 
More  than  ever  you  could  glean 
From  our  tale, 

"We  have  seen,  and  heard,  and  laughed, 

As  we  tossed  the  shattered  craft. 
While  those  on  board,  aghast, 
Every  moment  thought  their  last, 
In  the  gale. 

We  tossed  them  like  a  plaything, 

And  rent  their  riven  sail ; 
And  we  laughed  our  loud  Ha  !  ha  ! 

With  the  demons  of  the  gale 
In  their  ears. 
AVe  have  laughed,  and  heard,  and  seen, 
In  the  lightning's  lurid  sheen, 

And  the  growling  thunder's  blast ; 

And  we  drowned  them  all  at  last 
For  their  fears. 

There  were  mothers  there  on  board 
With  their  little  ones  in  arms  ; 

There  were  maidens  there  on  board 
More  lovely  in  their  charms 
Than  the  day ; 


PERCY  F.  SINNETT.  463 

And  again  we  heard,  and  laughed 
As  we  dashed  across  tlie  craft ; 

While  our  master  shrieked  and  roared, 

As  we  swept  them  overboard, 
And  away. 

And  they  battled  all  in  vain, 

"With  their  puny  human  strength. 
In  our  grasp  they  were  as  nothing ; 

Down,  down,  they  sank  at  length 
In  the  sea  ; 
And  still  again  we  screamed. 
As  the  lurid  flashes  gleamed. 

And  o'er  their  heads  we  swept, 

And  for  joy  we  danced  and  leapt 
In  our  glee. 

This,  this,  now  is  the  tale 

"We  have  to  tell  to-day, 
And  now  to  you  we've  sung  it 

In  our  merry,  mocking  way. 
Do  you  hear  1 
How  our  havoc  we  have  wrought, 
And  to  destruction  brought 

The  treasures  of  the  Earth, 

Held  by  man  in  price,  and  worth, 
Very  dear? 

Oh  !  ye  cruel  waves  up-dashing, 

"Why  rejoice  you  so  to-day  1 
As  shoreward  ye  come  crashing 

From  your  cruel,  cruel  play  ; 

"Why  fling  ye  up  your  spray 
On  the  shore  1 


464  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  sand  your  salt  spume  splashing, 
As  ye  frolic  in  your  glee  ; 

As  the  iron  rocks  ye're  lashing 
Ye  scourges  of  the  sea, 

Will  ye  never  then  be  glutted 
Any  more  1 


DOUGLAS  EKOOKE  WHEELTON  SLADEN, 
B.A.,  LL.B. 

[The  editor  of  this  book,  and  therefore  can  give  nothing  about  him- 
self beyond  a  summary.  Educated  at  Cheltenhaua  College, 
Trinity  College,  Oxford,  and  Melbourne  University  ;  took  open 
classical  scholarships  at  Cheltenham  and  Trinity,  and  graduated 
B.A.  at  Oxford,  with  a  first  class  in  Modern  History.  Emi- 
grated to  Melbourne,  where  he  graduated  B.A.  and  LL.B.  at  the 
University,  and  in  18S2  was  ai^pointed  to  the  newly-founded 
chair  of  history  in  the  University  of  Sydney,  which  he  resigned 
in  1S84,  to  pursue  his  historical  studies  at  "Home."  Has 
published  the  following  volumes :  Frithjof  and  Ingehjorg  (Kegan 
Paul,  1S81) ;  Australian  Lyrics,  first  edition  (Geo.  Robertson, 
I*Ielbourne,  18S2)  ;  A  Poetry  of  Exiles,  first  edition  (C.  E. 
Fuller,  Sydney,  18S3) ;  A  Summer  Christmas  (Griffith,  Earran 
ifc  Co.,  1884)  ;  In  Cormrall  and  Across  the  Sea  (Griffith,  Farran 
&  Co.,  1885) ;  Australian  Lyrics,  second  edition  (Griffith,  Farran 
&,  Co.,  1885)  ;  A  Poetry  of  Exiles,  second  edition  (Griffith, 
Farran  &  Co.,  1886)  ;  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  first  edition 
(Florence,  1886)  ;  second  edition  (Griffith,  Farran  &  Co.,  18S7)  ; 
and  has  in  preparation  the  second  volume  of  A  Poetry  of  Exiles. 
He  has  published  two  novels  under  assumed  names,  Dick 
Stalwart,  an  Oxonian,  by  0.  C.  (in  the  Qucenslander),  and 
Seized  by  a  Shadow,  by  Rose  Mullion  (Griffith,  Farran  &  Co., 
1S85).  He  has  also  edited  for  Walter  Scott's  "Canterbury 
Poets  Series,"  a  volume  of  selections  from  Australian  poetry 
entitled  Australian  Ballads  and  Rhymes,  and  for  his  "  Windsor 
Series  "  A  Century  of  Australian  Song :  and  is  at  present  editing 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHEELTON  SLA  DEN.    465 

the  Australian  part  of  a  Slang  Dictionary  for  an  eminent  firm 
of  London  publishers.  He  has  been  a  constant  contributor  to 
English  and  Australian  periodicals. 

WATERLOO. 

SUNDAT,  JUNE  iStH,  1815. 

•'  What  struck  ? " 

"  Half-past  ten  o'clock." 

As  over  his  saddlebow  he  bent, 

He  thought  of  a  village  church  in  Kent, 

And  said,  "  She'll  be  kneeling  soon  to  pray — 

Perhaps  for  me — on  this  Sabbath-day." 

Ping !  ping ! 

]  lark  the  bullets  wing  .' 

Their  cuirassiers  sweep  across  the  plain. 

"  Charge  them,  our  Life  Guards  !  " — They  turn  again ; 

"While  English  beauty  is  on  its  knees 

For  English  valour  across  the  seas. 

There  goes 

The  vanguard  of  the  foes  ! 

They've  taken  the  wood  by  Hougoumont ! 

"  Coldstreams  and  Fusiliers  to  the  front  !  " 

Taken  again,  lads  !  that's  not  amiss. 

Your  sweethearts  at  home  will  boast  of  this. 

Pell-mell, 

Pullet,  shot,  and  shell 

Kain  on  our  infantry  thick  and  fast, 

iMany  a  stout  heart  will  beat  its  last ; 

Blue  eyes  will  moisten  many  a  day 

For  good  lives  lightly  given  away. 

2  G 


466  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Crash,  clash, 

Like  a  torrent's  dash, 

Lancer  and  cuirassier  leap  on  the  square, 

Scarcely  a  third  of  the  bayonets  there. 

Ye,  who  would  look  on  old  England  again, 

Now  must  ye  prove  yourselves  Englishmen. 

Stamp,  stamp, 

With  its  even  tramp, 

Rolls  uphill  the  invincible  Guard  : 

Falters  it  at  the  fiftieth  yard  ? 

Weak,  worn,  and  oft  assaulted  the  foe, 

Yet  never  its  heart  misgave  it  so. 

On,  on. 

And  the  fight  is  won  ! 

Shot-stricken  linesman  and  thrice-charged  Guard 

Glares  at  them  lion-like,  hungry  and  hard ; 

His  waiting  is  done — his  hour  has  come  ; 

Pent-up  fierceness  drives  bayonets  home. 

On,  on. 

Life  Guard  and  Dragoon  ! 

An  English  charge  and  a  red  right  hand 

Will  bring  fair  years  to  your  fair  old  land. 

With  riven  corslet,  and  shivered  lance, 

Is  reft  and  shivered  the  pride  of  France. 

Still,  still. 

In  the  moonlight  chill, 
A  dying  Dragoon  looks  up  to  a  friend  : 
"Tell  her  I  did  my  part  to  the  end — 
Tell  her  I  died  as  an  Englishman  should — 
And  give  her — her  handkerchief — it  is  my  blood." 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHEELTON  SLADEN.     467 

There  went, 

From  a  church  in  Kent, 

An  eager  and  anxious  prayer  to  God 

For  lovers,  brothers,  and  sons  abroad  : 

The  fairest  and  noblest  prayed  for  one — 

Neither  lover,  nor  brother,  nor  son. 

A  calm 

After  liymn  and  psahn  : — 

The  preacher  in  silent  thought  is  bowed, 

YjTQ  he  gives  out  the  bidding  prayer  alouJ. 

1  [ark  !  what  can  that  long,  dull  booming  be. 

Swept  by  the  east  wind  across  the  sea  1 

Boom,  boom, 

Like  the  voice  of  doom  ! 

The  preacher  has  fought,  and  knows  full  well 

The  message  that  booming  has  to  tell. 

And  gives  out  his  text,  "Let  God  arise, 

And  He  shall  scatter  our  enemies." 

One  night 

In  two  memories  bright ; 

One  golden  hour  unwatched  at  a  ball, . 

A  kerchief  taken  or  given  was  all. 

"Off  to  tlie  war  to-morrow — good-bye — 

I'll  carry  it  with  me  until  I  die  1 " 

"  lie  is  dead  ! 

You  have  come,"  she  said, 

'•To  bring  me  tidings  of  him  I  loved? 

Your  face  has  told  me  your  tale — he  proved 

Worthy  the  name  that  I  did  not  know, 

Tlie  man  that  I  thought  him  a  year  ago." 


463  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  He  died 

With  stern  English  pride  ; 
But  lived  to  fight  the  great  battle  through ; 
His  last  words  were  of  England  and  you  ; 
He  died  as  an  English  gentleman  should, 
And   sent   you  —  your    handkerchief — rich    with   his 
blood." 

"Ah  me! 

life  is  sad,"  moaned  she, 

"  When  all  the  sun  in  its  sky  hath  flown ; " 

And  "  one  loving  bosom  is  very  lone  ; " 

And,  "  Oh  !  if  I  might  but  lie  by  you. 

In  your  soldier  grave  at  Waterloo." 

— From  the  Australasian. 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  HISTORY. 

In  one  of  our  ominous  Arab  wars, 
AVe  read  of  a  regiment  lured  astray. 

Surrounded,  its  men  shot  down  in  scores, 
In  the  path  of  a  whirlwind  of  foes  all  day. 

And  faint  with  the  heat  of  the  Red  Sea's  shores. 


The  sword  that  shone  in  each  captain's  hand, 
And  the  sergeants'  uniforms  caught  the  eye 

Of  the  lynx  foe  crouched  in  the  desert  sand, 
And  singled  the  officers  out  to  die, 

As  though  they  were  stamped  with  a  curse's  brand. 

The  last  to  fall  was  in  school-boy  youth, 
And  yet  the  soldiery  broke  and  fled 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE   WHEELTON  SLA  DEN.    469 

AMien  he  fell,  as  thougli  he  had  been  in  sooth 

A  hero  and  veteran,  uho  had  bled 
Lons  ere  the  Eussians  crossed  the  Pruth. 


They  broke  and  fled,  and  from  every  side, 
Like  vultnres  from  far  at  the  scent  of  gore, 

Fresh  Bedouins  hitherto  unespied, 

Wheeled  down  to  finish  the  work  of  war, 

And  gloat  o'er  their  victims  before  they  died. 

The  soldiers — half  boys — had  forsaken  their  ranks, 
And  huddled  like  sheep  to  escape  the  foe, 

Who  leapt,  like  lions  upon  the  flanks 
Of  a  herd  of  terrified  buffalo — 

Caught — careless  with  thirst — on  a  river's  banks 

And  all  to  a  man  must  have  perished  there, 
When  out  of  the  ranks  stepped  forth  a  pace ; 

One  with  a  look  of  the  devil-may-care 

In  his  blood  shot  eyes  and  his  vice-worn  face. 

Who  flashed  the  dead  officer's  sword  in  the  air, 

And  thundered  his  orders  to  form  a  square. 

The  men,  when  they  heard  the  familiar  word. 

And  saw  the  familiar  signal  flash. 
Fell  into  their  places  with  one  accord, 

Defiant  alike  of  the  dervish  dash, 
And  the  hail  of  lead  from  the  ridges  poured. 

Till  a  spy  made  his  way  from  the  foe,  and  led 
Swift  to  the  rescue  their  host,  in  force, 

And  the  savages  reeled  away  in  dread, 
Before  the  charge  of  avenging  horse, 

Leaving  the  man  who  had  foiled  them  dead. 


4/0  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

[Pierced  through  the  heart,  when  the  figlit  was  fought, 
By  a  ball,  which  an  Arab  in  headlong  flight. 

Fired  at  a  venture,  though  fate-befraught.] 

With  the  sword  of  the  dead  boy  still  in  his  right. 

And  the  culours  fast  in  his  left  hand  caught. 

The  Brigadier  leapt  from  his  horse  in  haste, 
When  he  heard  the  story  the  saved  men  told. 

And,  while  his  Hussars  the  foemen  chased. 
Stooped  down  to  loosen  a  chain  of  gold, 

A  slender  chain  round  the  swart  neck  laced. 

Unbuttoned  the  dead  man's  stock  and  shirt, 
And  drew,  from  its  hiding  against  his  breast, 

A  wallet  of  leather  engrained  with  dirt, 
Close  to  his  heart  for  safe  keeping  pressed, 

And  wet  with  the  blood  of  his  heart's  death  hurt. 

Then,  with  dew  in  his  eyes  which  the  men  could  see, 

Discovered — only  the  miniature 
Of  a  beautiful  maiden  of  high  degree, 
AVomanly-passioned  and  angel-pure. 

And  a  letter  written,  while  tears  fell  free. 

On  paper  gilt  with  the  lordly  crest. 

Borne  by  her  sires  in  the  battles  of  aye, 

In  an  envelope,  worn  with  the  pocket,  addressed, 
"Captain,  the  Hon'rable  Charles  Le  Grey, 

No,  looo,  Cromwell  Eoad  West." 

- — From  the  I'oion  and  Country  Journal, 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHEELTON  SLA  DEN.    471 

AN  OLD  ROMANCE. 

A  BAR  of  an  old-fashioned  waltz  ! 

A  glance  at  a  faded  dress  ! 
^Vhat  is  it  that  wakes  in  my  heart 

These  echoes  of  tenderness  1 

"When  that  was  the  waltz  of  the  hour, 
That  dress  in  its  pride  and  glow 

Of  shimmering  azure  and  pearl 
A  seven  of  summers  ago, 

Sweet  eyes  used  to  gaze  in  my  eyes. 

Light  fingers  to  clasp  my  own, 
And  a  soft  voice  fell  on  my  ears 

In  a  tremulous  undertone. 

The  face  and  the  fingers  I  touch ; 

The  voice  in  its  music  is  here ; 
But  Romance  is  a  delicate  moth 

That  lives — ^just  the  sweet  of  a  year. 

• — From  the  Adelaide  Observer. 


BROKEN  GODS. 

Just  another  idol 

Fallen  from  its  place, — 
One  more  hollow  found  behind 

An  old  familiar  face  ! 
Comrade  mine,  I  thought  to  twine 

Our  hearts  for  evermore, 
And  lo  !  another  idol 

Broken  on  the  floor. 


472  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Kinsfolk  reared  from  childhood 

In  one  mother's  ways, 
School  friends  more  than  brothers  loved 

In  heart-open  days, 
Lovers  dear  as  kinsfolk  ne'er 

Are  themselves  no  more  : 
What !  must  all  the  idols 

Shatter  on  the  floor  ? 

Idols  loved  from  childhood, 

Idols  shrined  on  high, 
With  an  altar  of  their  own 

In  your  memory, 
Ah  !  to  say,  will  lie  some  day 

Like  puppets  of  an  hour, 
Only  in  utter  fragments 

To  prove  their  downfall's  power. 

Lo  !  another  idol ! 

Set  it  up  on  high  ! 
I^ever  heed  the  broken  gods, 

Leave  them  where  they  lie  ! 
On  it  shower  love's  every  flower, 

Make  it  all — your  all. 
Feed  it  with  your  heart's  blood 

And — some  day  it  will  fall. 

"Loved  you  not  these  false  gods 

Broken  on  the  floor  1 " 
"  I  Avould  fain  have  Avorshipped  them 

All  for  evermore. 
I  loved  well — 'twas  they  who  fell" 

"  Comrade,  let  them  lie, 
And  when  you  love  another, 

Shrine  it  high  of  high." 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE   WHEELTON  SLA  DEN.    473 


DRAKE  AND  RALEGH. 

Two  born  in  Devon,  of  world- renown, 
One  a  Carew  and  a  Cbampernowne, 
The  other  bred  in  a  humble  cottage 
Of  Crowndale,  hard  by  Tavistock  town. 

Both  in  their  manhood  the  Spaniards'  bane, 
Swept  o'er  and  harried  the  Spanish  main  : 
One  at  Cadiz,  and  one  in  the  Channel 
Shivered  the  mightiest  fleets  of  Spain. 

Hayes  Barton  and  Crowndale  !  here  are  shrined 
Two  sons  of  Devon  in  story  twined. 
Where  shall  we  look,  to  what  age  and  country, 
Such  in  one  province  at  once  to  find  1 

Hayes  Barton  and  Crowndale  !  narrow  lands 
To  breed  for  our  England  two  right  hands 
In  her  hour  of  closest  and  direst  peril, 
From  Philip's  Armada  and  Alva's  bands  ! 

One,  after  sailing  the  wide  world  round 
First  of  all  sailors,  his  long  rest  found 
"Where  he  had  weathered  his  storms  and  battles, 
Ere  Gloriana  was  Death-discrowned. 

The  other  laid  down  a  head,  grown  grey 
In  England's  service — in  council  and  fray, 
"When  all  his  glorious  generation, 
The  Knights  of  Queen  Bess,  had  passed  away. 

Under  the  Court's  malignant  power 

His  "  Tree  "  died  off  like  a  frozen  flower ; 

But  lives — like  the  yews  of  Buckland  Abbey — 

In  Devon  the  "Tree"  of  Drake  this  hour. 


474  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  block — though  hero  by  land  and  sea, 
Though  poet,  statesman,  and  sage  was  lie, 
Father  of  Englands  beyond  the  ocean, 
Great  father  of  Empires  yet  to  be  ! 

Aye — and  well  for  Ealegh  that  he  was  slain, 
And  well  that  his  House  so  soon  should  wane. 
If  it  made  him  immortal  to  England  sooner. 
Were  his  head  and  his  seed  cut  off  in  vain  1 

Aye,  James,  thou  couldst  lop  her  noblest  head, 
To  cringe  to  the  Spain  that  feared  the  dead ; 
But  axe  could  not  slay  the  truth  undying — 
'Twas  in  all  mens'  hearts — why  Ealegh  bled. 

Had  Ralegh  not  lost  his  head,  thy  son, 

Methinks,  might  never  have  lost  his  own. 

Tlie  head  of  a  hero  sold  to  foemen 

Sheathed  many  a  SAVord  round  the  Stuart's  throne. 

When  Ralegh — and  Strafford  after — fell 
[Who  could  have  shielded  a  cause  so  well  ? — 
lie  only  borrows  who  buys  off  danger.] 
The  death-bells  sounded  King  Charles's  knell. 

ISTot  one  of  her  greatest  in  Devon  sleeps ; 
Drake  rests  afar  in  the  South  Sea  deeps ; 
Dick  Grenville  lies  where  the  Spaniards  laid  him ; 
And  the  headless  corse  St.  Margaret  keeps. 

!N'or  need  they.     So  much  of  her  life  they  fill 
That  they  seem  to  be  walking  about  her  still. 
Sir  Richard,  Sir  Francis,  Sir  Walter,  Sir  Humphrey, 
Sir  John,  and  Sir  Martin,  and  aye  they  will, 
While  England  is  England,  and  Devon  Devon, 
And  Earth  under  Heaven. 

— Fro7)i  the  Sydney  Echo, 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHEELTON  SLA  DEN.    475 

GOBIN  AG  ACE* 
From  "Edward,  the  Black  Prince." 

I. 

God  chooseth  tlie  weak  to  confound  the  strong, 

Gobin  Agace, 
Or  surely  thy  name  had  been  lost  to  song, 

Gobin  Agace  ! 
King  Philip  of  France  he  hatli  reached  Araynes, 

Gobin  Agace, 
With  Bohemia's  King  and  tlie  Duke  of  Lorraine 
And  the  Earls  of  Flanders  and  Blois  in  train, 

Gobin  Agace. 
But  with  all  the  Princes  of  Christentie, 
Would  he  reck  of  a  pitiful  slave  like  thee, 

Gobin  Agace  ? 

*  Then  the  King  assembled  together  his  counsel,  and  ordered 
certain  prisoners  of  the  country  of  Ponthieu  and  Vimeu  to  be 
brought  before  him  :  the  King  very  courteously  demanded  of  them 
that  if  there  were  any  among  them  that  knew  any  passage  below 
Abbeville  that  he  and  his  host  might  pass  over  the  river  Somme  : 
if  any  one  would  inform  him  thereof,  he  would  be  liberated  from 
his  ransom,  and  twenty  of  his  company  whom  he  chose.  There 
was  a  sutler  called  Gobin  Agace,  who  stepped  forward  and  said  to 
the  King,  "Sire,  I  promise  you,  at  the  risk  of  ray  liead,  that  I  will 
bring  you  to  such  a  place  where  you  and  your  host  may  pass  over 
the  river  Somme  without  danger  :  there  are  certain  places  in  the 
passage  where  you  may  pass  twelve  men  abreast  twice  within  a 
d.ay  and  a  night,  and  you  will  not  go  above  knee-deep  in  water, 
but  when  the  flood  comes  so  deep  that  no  man  can  pass  ;  but  when 
the  riood  is  gone,  which  is  twice  in  a  day  and  niL,'ht,  then  the  river 
is  so  low  that  it  may  be  passed  without  danger,  both  on  horseback 
and  on  foot ;  the  passage  is  hard  in  the  bottom  with  white  stones, 
so  that  all  your  carriages  may  go  safely.  Therefore  the  passage  is 
called  Blanche-taque.  If  you  make  ready  to  depart  early,  you  may 
be  thi.-re  by  sunrise."  The  King  said  :  "  If  what  j'ou  say  be  true, 
I  will  acquit  the  thy  ransom  and  all  thy  company,  and  moreover, 
sliall  give  thee  a  hundred  nobles." — Fkoissaut  [translated  bi/  Lurd 
Utrncris),  vol.  i.  chap,  cxxvi. 


476  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

'Tis  the  King  who  quarrels,  the  poor  who  bleed, 
Who  are  slain  by  the  sword  and  stamped  by  the  steed  : 
Eut  that  Kings  of  the  poor  and  their  wrongs  should 
heed — 

Gobin  Agace ! 
King  and  baron  and  belted  earl 
Care  they  for  slaughtered  or  captive  churl  ? 
War  is  a  game  which  the  seigneurs  play, 
With  honours  and  gold  if  they  win  the  day, 
And  if  they  yield,  with  their  lieges  to  pay, 

Gobin  Agace. 

II. 

Thou  art  a  captive  and  all  thy  kin, 

Gobin  Agace ! 
And  how  shall  a  poor  man  his  freedom  win, 

Gobin  Agace  1 
The  haughtiest  monarch  of  Christentie, 

Gobin  Agace, 
Shall  he  hear  of  a  beggarly  slave  like  thee. 
And  save  thee  out  of  tliy  jeopardie, 

Gobin  Agace  ? 
King  Edward  of  England,  what  sayeth  he  1 
Whosoever  bewrayeth  a  ford  to  me — 

Gobin  Agace — 
Freedom  to  all  in  his  companie. 
And  what  is  King  Philip  of  France  to  thee 
AVhen  thou  art  in  bondage  beyond  the  sea, 

Gobin  Agace  ? 
The  best  of  monarchs  is  he,  I  ween, 
Who  least  by  the  like  of  thee  is  seen. 
Where  the  King's  foot  treadeth  no  grass  is  green. 
Gobin  Agace,  here  is  gold  for  thee, 
And  freedom  for  all  in  thy  companie, 

Gobin  Agace  ! 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE   WHEELTON  SLADEN.    477 


Oh,  thou  hast  sold  the  fortunes  of  France, 

Gobin  Agace  ! 
And  eleven  princes  of  high  puissance, 

Gobin  Agace, 
And  fourscore  barons  had  shrift  full  short, 

Gobin  Agace, 
"With  knights  t^A'elve  hundred  of  good  report. 
And  thousands  thirty  of  baser  sort, 

Gobin  Agace ! 
For  thy  caitiff  freedom  and  hundred  crowns 
There  are  fallen  princes  and  biirning  towns, 

Gobin  Agace. 
For  thirty  Pieces  Lord  Christ  was  sold. 
And  thou  for  thy  Pieces  of  Judas-gold 
The  Lilies  of  France  in  the  mire  hast  rolled, 

Gobin  Agace. 
"Oh,   the  Ford  of  "VMiite  Stones  may  be  blood-stained 

red, 
And  Cre^y  made  v/elter  with  princely  dead ; 
They  would  none  of  them  deign  one  thought  for  mo 
Were  I  thralled  in  their  quarrel  beyond  the  sea. 
I  care  not  for  England  or  France,"  sang  he, 
"  So  that  I  have  my  gold,  and  my  limbs  be  free  " — 

Gobin  Apfice. 


4/8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


TO  THE  FALLEN  GUM-TREE  ON  MT.  BA  W-BA  W* 

Yks,  you  lie  there  in  state  unearthly-solemn, 
As  though  you'd  been  a  heaven-supporting  column, 
Xot  a  dead  tree,  of  bark  and  foliage  stript, 
Gigantic  Eucalypt. 

Your  brothers,  standing  still,  look  half-defiant, 
Half  in  mute  silence  for  the  fallen  giant : 
I  doubt  if  aught  so  great  e'er  fell  so  far 

Except  a  falling  star. 

How  tall  would  you  have  grown  in  course  of  Nature  1 
How  old  are  your  five  hundred  feet  of  stature  ? 
Can  you  remember  Noah  and  the  flood 

When  you  were  yet  a  bud  1 

Standing  beside  your  trunk,  one  almost  fancies 
That  he  beholds  the  Middle  Age  romances, 
And  that  the  stories  travellers  have  told. 

In  books  despised  and  old, 

May  not  have  been  without  some  slight  foundation. 
Though  they,  of  course,  lost  nothing  in  narration : 
Herodotus  we  dare  not  now  ignore 

As  Egypt  we  explore. 

What  have  you  witnessed  in  your  long  existence 
On  remote  ranges  in  the  Gippsland  distance  1 
Have  you  seen  savage  empires  rise  and  fall, 
And  stories  tragical  ? 

*  This  tree,  lying  in  one  of  the  gorges  of  Mount  Baw-Baw,  Gipps- 
land, Victoria,  measured,  as  it  lay,  480  feet  long,  and  where  the 
top  had  been  broken  off,  had  a  diameter  of  2  feet.  Our  moat 
eminent  naturalist  pronounces  it  to  have  been  at  least  40  feet 
longer,  as  ft  stood. 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHBELTON  SLADExW.    479 

Did  some  black  Dido,  flying  from  her  lovers, 
Found  a  new  kingdom,  happy  in  thy  covers, 
Until  a  Maori  yEiieas  came 

And  lit  the  cursed  flame  1 

Or  a  dark  Robin  Hood  devote  his  leisure 
To  stealing  skulls,  and  take  a  savage  pleasure 
In  making,  what  blacks  have  by  way  of,  priests. 
Uneasy  at  their  feasts '? 

Or  saw  you  earlier  and  gentler  races, 
Of  nobler  instincts  and  with  fairer  faces, 
Die  out  before  the  circling  boomerang 

And  the  black  serpent's  fang  ? 

You  look  like  a  great  chip  of  the  creation, 
A  relic  of  the  former  Dispensation, 
"When  men  were  forced  to  spend  nine  hundred  years 
Here  in  this  vale  of  tears. 

Yet  to  us,  creatures  of  a  day,  it's  soothing 

To  know  that,  as  trees  go,  your  years  are  nothing  : 

There's  little  in  Australia  but  rocks 

Of  old  age  orthodox. 

Lie  there  in  fallen  majesty,  I  love  you  ! 

May  you  lie  there  till  the  last  trump  shall  move  you. 

Magnificent  as  Cheops  in  his  crypt, 

You  dead  king  Eucalypt ! 

—From  the  Victoria7i  Jieiieio. 


A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 


THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER. 


"  You,  sitting  in  your   ancient  hall,  before  a  beech-log 

fire, 
Think  that  the  elder  should  have  all — of  course  you  do — 

you're  squire ; 
I,  sitting  on  a  three-rail  fence,  beneath  a  Queensland  sun. 
Think    that   the    law   shows   little   sense   to   give    the 

younger  none. 

Nell  wouldn't  know  me,  I  suppose,  were  she  to  see  me 

now, 
A  Bushman  to  the  very  toes  and  bearded  to  the  brow  ; 
I  didn't  wear  a  flannel  shirt  when  I  was  courting  her, 
Or  moleskin   pants  engrained  with  dirt  and  shiny  as  a 

spur. 

I  daresay  that  she  pictures  me  in  patent  leather  boots, 
A  tall  white  hat  (an  L.  and  B.),  and  one  of  Milton's 

suits — 
That  was  the  Charlie  whom  she  knew  before  the  old  man 

died; 
I  wonder  if  she'd  take  this  view  if  she  were  by  my  side. 

How  beautiful  she  was  that  night ! — she  seldom  looked 

so  fair ; 
And  how  the  soft  wax-candle  light  showed  up  her  auburn 

hair ! 
She  was  a  bit  inclined  to  tease,  to  stand  on  P's  and  Q's, 
To  "  Keep  your  distance,  if  you  please,"  until  I  told  my 
news. 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHE ELTON  SLA  DEN.    481 

Then  she  rose  up  and  took  my  hand  and  looked  me  in 

the  face, 
And  when  in  turn  her  face  I  scanned,  I  saw  a  tell-tale 

trace 
Of  dewdrops  from  the  brave  blue  eyes  along  the  dimpled 

cheek, 
The  while  she  told  in  simple  sighs  the  tale  she  would  not 

speak. 

She  never  let  me  kiss   before,  but  now  she  gave  her 

mouth 
So  frankly,  that  I  almost  swore  I  would  forswear  the 

South— 
The  sunny  South  of  prospect  vast — and  hug  the  barren 

Xorth, 
Had  not  she  held  me  to  it  fast,  and,  weeping,  sent  me 

forth. 

So  here  I  am — a  pioneer,  and  work  with  my  own  hands 

Harder  than  any  labourer  upon  my  brother's  lands, 

Far  from  the  haunts   of    gentlemen   in   this   outlandish 

place ; 
I  wonder  if  I  e'er  again  shall  see  a  woman's  face. 

I  couldn't  stand  it,  but  for  this,  that,  when  I  first  came 

out, 
I  used  to  see  the  carriages  in  which  men  drove  about, 
Who'd  tended  sheep  themselves  of   old  'mid  Highland 

moors  and  rocks, 
And  now  were  lords  of  wealth  untold,  and  half  a  hundred 

flocks. 

I  laid  this  unction  to  my  heart,  that,  if  a  Scottish  herd 
Could  play  so  manfully  his  part,  I  should  not  be  deterred  : 

2  H 


482  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  so  I  slave  and  stay  and  save,  and  squander  nought 

but  youth : 
Nell  sometimes  writes  and  calls  me  brave,  and  knows  but 

half  the  truth. 


Do  you  suppose  that  old  Sir  Hugh,  who  won  your  lands 

in  mail, 
Showed  half  the  valour  that  I  do  in  sitting  on  this  rail  ? 
He  tilted  in  his  lordly  way,  and  stoutly,  I  confess ; 
But  I  stand  sentry  all  the  day  against  the  wilderness. 

There  isn't  much  poetical  about  an  old  tweed  suit, 
And  nothing  chivalrous  at  all  about  a  cowhide  boot ; 
Yet  oft  beneath  a  bushman's  breast  there  lurks  a  knightly 

soul. 
And  bushman's  feet  have  often  pressed  towards  a  gallant 

goal. 

So  here  I  am,  and,  spite  of  all,  I  hope  in  long  years  more 
To  stand  within  my  brother's  hall,  my  quest  of  fortune 

o'er. 
And  so  I  slave  and  stay  and  save,  and  squander  nought 

but  youth ; 
And  if   Nell  said  that  I  was  brave  she  only  told   the 

truth." 


II. 

"  And  is  it  true,  or  do  I  dream  1  is  this  the  dear  old  hall  1 
These  the  old  pictures  ?     Yes  !  I  seem  to  recognise  them 

all; 
That  is  my  father  in  his  pink  upon  his  favourite  hack, 
I  wonder  Avhat  would  Nellie  think  knew  she  that  I  were 

back ! 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE   WHEELTON  SLA  DEN.    4S3 

That  is  ray  brother — he  is  changed,  and  heavier  than  he 

was 
When  years  ago  the  park  he  ranged  with  me  on  '  Phiz ' 

and  '  Boz ; ' 
His  figure  is  a  trifle  full,  his  whiskers  edged  with  grey ; 
And  yet  at  Oxford  he  could  pull  a  good  oar  in  his  day. 

The  portrait  in  that  frame  is  Nell — why,  /  gave  Dick 

that  frame, 
And  doesn't  the  old  pet  look  well?  I  swear  she's  just  the 

same 
As  Avhen  I  left  her  years  ago  to  cross  the  southern  foam  ; — 
I  wonder  if  they've  let  her  know  that  I'm  expected  home. 

How  well  the  artist  coloured  it ;  he  caught   the  sunny 

shades 
That  ever  and  anon  would  flit  across  her  auburn  braids ; 
But  no  ! — that  isn't  quite  the  blue  that  shone  in  Nellie's 

eyes ; 
Their  light  was  nearer  in  its  hue  to  our  Australian  skies. 


White  suits  her  best — she  wore  a  white  of  some  soft  silky 

weft 
Upon  that  memorable  night,  the  night  before  I  left ; 
Just  such  a  graceful  flowing  train   then  rippled  as  she 

moved ; 
I'd  like  to  see  her  once  again,  tlve  lady  that  I  loved. 

I  wonder  what  I'm  staring  at ;  this  is  a  real  dress-coat ; 
A  veritable  white  cravat  is  tied  about  my  throat ; 
I've  had  a  dress-suit  on  before,  and  yet,  I'm  sure,  I  feel 
Just  like  an  awkward  country  boor  asked  to  a  Sunday 
meal. 


484  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I  can't  bear  sitting  here  alone,  it  seems  so  strange  and  sad, 
Now  that  my  father  there  is  gone,  and  I'm  no  more  a  lad, 
'Twas  here  he  nursed  me  on  his  knee  in  that  old  high- 
backed  chair  ; 
I'd  give  ten  thousand  down  to  see  the  old  man  sitting 
there. 

What  was  that  footstep  ? — not  old  John's  ?  his  boots  have 

such  a  creak ; 
I'd  almost  swear  I  knew  the  tones,  and  heard  a  woman 

speak ; 
The  steps  come  nearer,  and  the  door — what  is  it  stirs  my 

heart  1 
Why  should  a  footstep  on  the  floor  cause  every  nerve  to 

start  t 

A  lady  scans  with  tear-bright  eye  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
And  bends  her  way  unconsciously  almost  to  where  I  stand : 
I  think  I  know  that  writing  well :  of  course — for  it's  my 

own. 
And  she  who  reads  it  thus  is  Nell. — Together  and  alone  !  " 


III. 

A  lady  in  her  boudoir  stands  before  a  faded  carte, 
Wistfully  folding  her  white  hands,  her  sweet  lips  just 

apart ; 
"Yes,  he  is    back,"  she  said  at  last,   "I    thought    he'd 

never  come ; 
Yet  now  when  all  these  years  are  past  since  first  he  left 

his  home, 

It  seems  as  if  'twas  yesterday  on  which  I  bade  him  go. 
He  never  would  have  gone  away  if  I  had  borne  his  '  No.' 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE   WHEELTON  SLA  DEN.    485 

And  yet  eleven  years  have  flown : — I  did  not  hear  him 

come, 
And  went  to  read  his  note  alone  unvexed  by  gossip's  hum. 

I  wonder  if  I  laughed  or  cried,  my  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 
To  find  my  lover  by  my  side  and  past  the  lonely  years : 
He  took  my  hands,  we  dared  not  speak  for  full  a  minute's 

space ; 
I  could  not  be  the  first  to  break  the  silence  of  the  place. 

Charlie  is  altered :  he  was  once  a  blase — little  more — 
Who  thought  it  fine  to  be  a  dunce,  and  everything  a  bore  ; 
"Who  wore  the  closest-fitting  coats  of  any  in  '  The  Row,' 
And  patent-leather  buttoned  boots — a  kind  of  Bond  Street 
beau; 

Yet  capable  of  better  things  when  out  of  Fashion's  swim. 
Or  I,  who  scorn  mere  tailorlings,  should  not  have  borne 

with  liim  : 
But  Charlie's  heart  was  of  good  stuff",  and  of  the  proper 

grit; 
!Men  always  found  it  true  enough  when  they  had  tested  it. 

He  is  much  altered ; — when  I  saw  his  dignified  dark  face, 
I  knew  that  changes  had  come  o'er  his  life  in  that  wild 

place  : 
I  read  the  story  in  his  eyes,  I  heard  it  in  his  voice. 
The  glad  news  that  she  ought  to  prize,  the  lady  of  his 

choice. 

He  must  be  more  than  dull  of  soul  who  in  the  open  West 
Sees  leagues  on  leagues  of  prairie  roll,  and  is  not  soul  im- 
pressed ; 
Who  knows  that  he  may  hold  for  his  as  far  as  he  can  see 
Into  the  untamed  wilderness  from  top  of  highest  tree ; 


486  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Who  feels  tliat  he  is  all  alone,  without  a  white  man  near 
To  share  or  to  dispute  his  throne  o'er  forest,  plain,  and 

mere  ; 
With  nought  but  ifature  to  behold,  no    confidante  but 

her : 
He  must  be  of  the  baser  mould  or  feel  his  spirit  stir. 

I'd  rather  marry  him  than  Dick,  though  Dick  is  an  '  M.P.' 
Lord  of  the  manor  of  High  Wick,  a  'D.L.'  and  'P.C 
'  Eight  Hon.'  before  your  name,  I  know,  is  coveted  by  all, 
And  one  needs  courage  to  forego  a  gabled  Tudor  hall. 

But  then  I  wish  Dick  would  not  seem  so  like  a  well-fed 

dog, 
And  on  his  life's  unruffled  stream  float  so  much  like  a  log ; 
The  world  has  been  so  good  to  him  that  he  has  never 

known 
How  hard  it  sometimes  is  to  swim  when  shipwrecked  and 

alone. 

Now  Charlie's  very  different,  he's  seen  the  real  world. 

And  where  no  white  man  ever  went  his  lonely  flag  un- 
furled ; 

He  went  to  slave  and  stay  and  save,  and  squander  nought 
but  youth ; 

And  when  I  said  that  he  was  brave  I  knew  but  half  the 
truth ; 

For   there  in  intermittent  strife,  with  hostile  'natives' 

waged, 
He  spent  the  early  noon  of  life  in  hum-drum  toil  engaged ; 
Or  galloping  the  livelong  day  under  a  Queensland  sun. 
To  head  the  bullocks  gone  astray  or  stolen  off  the  run. 


DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHEELTON  SLADEN.    487 

He's   handsomer,    I    think,    to-day,    although   he   is    so 

brown, 
And  though  his  hair  is  tinged  with  grey,  and  thin  upon 

his  crown. 
Than  in  the  days  when  he  was  known  at  '  White's '  as 

*  Cupid '  Forte, 
And  in  good  looks  could  hold  his  own  with  any  man  at 

Court. 


Well,  he  has  come  and  asked  again  that  which  he  came 

to  ask 
The  night  before  he  crossed  the  main  upon  his  uphill 

task  : 
I   answered   as    I    answered  then,   but  with    a    lighter 

heart ; — 
"Who  knew  if  we  should  meet  again  the  day  we  had  to 

parti" 


IV. 

"'Neath  a  verandah  in  Toorak  I  sit  this  summer  morn. 
While  from  the  garden  at  the  back,  upon  the    breezes 

borne. 
There  floats  a  subtle,  faint  perfume  of  oleander  bow'rs. 
And   broad   magnolias   in   bloom,    and    opening    orange 

flow'rs. 


A  lady  picking  flowers  I  see  draw  near  with  footsteps 

light. 
And  when  she  stoops  she  shows  to  me  a  slipper  slim  and 

bright, 
An  ankle  stockinged  in  black  silk,   and  rounded  as  a 

palm, 
Her  dress  is  of  the  hue  of  milk,  and  making  of  jMadame. 


488  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I  wonder  is  that  garden  hat  intended  to  conceal 
All  but  that  heavy  auburn  plait,  or  merely  to  reveal 
Enough  to  make  one  long  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  is 

there, 
To  see  if  eye  and  feature  match  the  glory  of  the  hair  1 


That  is  my  Nellie — she  is  here  and  Mrs.  '  Cupid '  Forte  : 
We  came  to  Melbourne  late  last  year ;  I  hate  to  be  the 

sport 
Of   snow,  and  sleet,   and   slush,   and  rain,   and  yellow 

London  fogs  : 
An  English  winter,  I  maintain,  is  only  fit  for  frogs. 

The  night  when  first  again  we  met — alone,  by  some  good 

luck — 
I  asked  if  she  repented  yet  the  bargain  we  had  struck  1 
She  answered  that  she  was  too  old,  that  what  few  charms 

she'd  had 
Had  faded  in  the  years  that  rolled  since  we  were  girl  and 

lad. 

And  all  the  while  she  was  as  fair  as  ever  she  had  been ; 
Years  had  not  triumphed  to  impair  the  beauties  of  eighteen; 
The  same  slight  figure  as  of  yore,  the  same  elastic  gait 
I  prized  in  her  ten  years  before,  were  hers  at  twenty- 
eight. 

And  had  her  girlish  loveliness  lost  aught  of  its  old  grace, 
And  had  there  been  one  shade  the  less  of  esjpi'it  in  her 

face, 
I  had  no  calling  to  upbraid,  and  tell  the  bitter  truth. 
For  whom  she  let  her  beauty  fade  and  sacrificed  her 

youth. 


A.  C.  SMITH.  489 

Look  at  her  as  she  stoops  to  pull  that  rosebud  otf  its 

briar ; 
Do  you  not  think  her  beautiful  as  lover  could  desire  1 
Heard  you  that  laughter  light  and  sweet,  that  little  snatch 

she  sung  ? 
Are    they   the    tinkling    counterfeit    of    one   no    longer 

young  ? 

Here  'neath  the  clear  Australian   sky  I  lead  the  life  of 

kings, 
'Mid   everything   that   tempts   the   eye    or    soothes   the 

sufferings, — 
Wealth  and  a  woman  kind  and  fair,  fine  horses  and  fine 

trees. 
Children,  choice  fruits  and  flowers  rare,  and  health  and 

hope  and  ease. 

—From  the  Vict07-ia)i  Review. 


A.  C.  SMITH. 

[Was  a  Presbyterian  minister  in  Victoria,  but  went  up  to  Queens- 
land, wliere  he  has  been  a  pretty  constant  contributor  to  the 
Press  under  the  initials  A.  C.  S.] 

THE   WAIF. 

He  went  into  the  bush,  and  passed 

Out  of  the  sight  of  living  men, 
None  knows  the  nook  that  held  him  last, 

None  ever  saw  his  face  again. 

It  may  be,  in  the  wildering  wood 
He  wandered,  weary,  spent  of  breath, 

Till  the  all-mastering  solitude 

Sank  to  the  deeper  hush  of  death. 


490  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Perchance  he  crawled  where  the  low  bush, 
More  verdant,  whispered  streams  were  nigh. 

Hopeful,  but  desperate,  made  a  rush. 
And  found,  0  God  !  the  bed  was  dry  ! 

He  was  a  waif,  and  friends  had  none, 
Who  knows  but  in  some  distant  land 
■     A  mother  mourns  her  errant  son, 
A  sister  longs  to  clasp  his  hand  1 

He  was  a  waif,  but  with  him  died 
A  world  of  yearnings  deep  within — 

Yearnings  to  loftiest  things  allied, 
But  wrecked  by  cruel  fate,  or  sin. 

ITone  heard  the  lone  one's  dying  prayer 
Save  Infinite  Pity  bending  o'er, 

Who,  haply,  bore  him  quietly  where 
They  hunger  and  they  thirst  no  more 

0  ye  vast  woods  !  what  fond  life-dreams 
Ye  close  !  what  broken  lives  ye  hide  ! 

Darkly  absorbed,  like  hopeful  streams, 
That  in  dry  desert  lands  subside. 

Stranger  the  tales  ye  could  unfold 
Than  wild  romancist  ever  penned, 

Remaining  buried  in  the  mould 

Till  time  shall  cease,  and  mystery  end  ! 


WALTER  SMITH.  491 

WALTER  SI^IITH. 

[Better  kuowu  to  Colonial  readers  as  Old  Saltbush.] 

DESPAIR. 

To  feel  the  heart-beat  brimming  full  of  love, 
And  know  another  brims  as  full  for  you ; 

Yet  know  that  Fate  as  ruled  by  powers  above, 
Has  placed  a  barrier  not  to  be  passed  through ; 

A  dreary  barrier  Avhich  ever  parts 

Two  faithful,  tender,  trusting,  loving  hearts. 

This  is  the  lot  which  makes  sweet  life  a  blank, 

Which  renders  bright  days  cheerless,  dull  ones  black ; 

Which  sows  the  weeds  of  sorrow  thick  and  rank, 
And  keeps  the  tortured  bosom  on  the  rack 

Till  e'en  the  careworn  brow  and  haggard  eye, 

Tells  of  the  cankerworm,  which  will  not  die. 

Tells  of  long  midnight  hours  in  musing  spent 

O'er  which  should  have  been  born  the  brightest  flowers  ! 

Tells  of  that  wearing,  settled,  discontent 

Which  turns  from  all  the  mirth  of  pleasure's  bowers. 

And  on  his  own  heart  feeding,  feels  that  woe 

Is  all  his  gladness,  all  that  we  can  know. 

Should  the  loved  one  be  snatched  away  by  death, 
The  worshipped  form  of  beauty  gone  to  clay ; 

The  loveliest  blossom  plucked  from  out  the  wreath 
And  lowly  laid  beneath  a  tombstone  grey ; 

Cold  as  that  tombstone  is  his  aching  heart. 

From  which  that  cherished  form  will  scarcely  part. 


492  A  USTRA  LIAN  POE  TS. 

Yet  the  bereaved  one  knows  Jehovah  gave 

The  spirit  to  the  body  to  recall ; 
That  'tis  the  lot  of  all  to  fill  a  grave, 

And  that  the  best  and  brightest  earliest  fall : 
Sadly  he  moans  above  the  faded  one, 
Yet  murmurs  in  his  grief,  "  God's  "svill  be  done  ! " 

But  when  two  hearts  are  severed  by  the  blast, 
By  stern  misfortune  or  by  envious  wrong ; 

Yet  loving  still  and  cherishing  the  past. 

Feeling  the  tie  which  binds  them  still  as  strong 

As  when  beneath  some  well-remembered  tree, 

They  pledged  their  faith  for  life, — eternity. 

'Tis  this  that  makes  a  pang  which  will  not  sleep, 
A  fire  which  feeds  upon  the  mortal  frame, 

A  gloom  unbroken  which  o'er  all  will  creep, 
And  render  day  and  night  alike  the  same — 

Bleak  as  the  grave,  which  only  brings  redress, 

Sad  as  a  knell,  and  full  of  bitterness. 

Sad  as  the  feeling  which  on  Peter  stole 

When  the  cock  crew,  the  herald  of  his  shame ; 

Dark  as  the  cloud  which  fell  on  Brutus'  soul 
When  Caesar  to  his  tent  at  midnight  came ; 

Or  on  the  heart  of  Adam  when  he  knew 

His  Abel  dead,  and  whose  the  hand  which  slew. 

0,  weight  of  woe  the  heart  cannot  unfold  ! 

0,  sorrow  that  the  tongue  cannot  explain  ! 
Thy  pain  more  grievous  is  because  untold, 

Thy  grasp  is  firmer  on  the  heart  and  brain 
Than  any  sorrow  to  which  man  is  heir, 
Though  marked  by  hollow  cheeks,  and  eyes  which  look 
despair. 


R.  SPENCER-BROWNE.  493 


R.  SPENCER-BROWNE. 

[Is  a  Queensland  journalist  of  repute,  and  a  well-known  verse 
writer.  He  was  encouraged  to  pursue  literature  by  the  poet 
Gordon,  who  expressed  himself  as  highly  pleased  with  "  young 
Browne's "  poetical  efforts.  He  has  edited  the  Townsville Herald, 
the  Cooktoivn  Herald,  and  the  Brisbane  Daily  Ob.seifer.  Mr, 
Browne  has  strong  military  leanings,  and  he  received  a  com- 
mission in  the  Queensland  Defence  Force  (Moreton  ^lounted 
Infantry).  In  order  to  perfect  himself  in  this  work,  he  visited 
England  and  studied  at  Aldershot.  While  in  England  he  did 
some  successful  journalistic  work,  and  was  appointed  special 
correspondent  for  the  Daily  Chronicle  at  the  Melbourne  Exhi- 
bition.] 

A  SEA-GULL  IN  SHORE. 

("  A  white  sea-gull  was  seen  yesterday  by  a  party  of  drovers  on  the 
Flinders  River.  How  the  bird  managed  to  wander  so  far  inland 
is  difficult  of  explanation,  seeing  that  we  have  not  recently  had  any 
bad  weather  on  the  coast." — Queensland  Paper.) 

What  are  the  tidings  you  bring  to  me, 
0  white-winged  messenger  of  the  sea  1 
The  desert  air  by  your  flight  is  stirred, 
Your  mystic  cry  through  the  night  is  heard, 
And  where  are  you  drifting,  stranger  bird  ? 
In  grief  or  glee  'i 

Why  have  you  left  the  ocean  fair. 
That  pure  sweet  life  in  its  soft  salt  air  1 
To  wander  here,  where  the  days  are  drear, 
Where  faith  lies  dead,  and  where  year  by  year 
We  see  all  good  things  disappear 
Through  strife  and  care. 

Why  have  you  left,  0  stranger  tell, 

The  sound  of  the  sea  with  its  fall  and  swell  1 


494  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

On  land  you  will  hear  the  stifled  cry 
Of  breaking  hearts,  as  you  pass  them  by ; 
And  Gold  the  god  you  will  see  raised  high, 
And  earth  as  hell. 

0  say,  fair  bird,  with  breast  of  snow, 
Why  do  you  roam  where  the  dry  winds  blow  1 
The  sea  is  free,  but  here  on  the  land 
The  white  slaves  toil  in  a  hopeless  band. 
And  crime  and  cant  go  hand  in  hand, 
And  all  is  Avoe. 

Then  fly,  white  friend,  back,  back  to  sea, 
For  sad  is  my  heart  as  I  look  on  thee  ; 
Let  swift  wings  bear  thee  back  from  shore. 
Let  thy  return  be  no  more — no  more. 
But  as  the  water  thou  roamest  o'er, 
Be  thou  as  free. 

Eude  be  thy  waking,  man,  to-night. 
Sad  be  thy  greeting  to  morning  light ! 
No  bearer  to  thee  of  peace  am  I, 
Far  from  the  crimes  of  the  sea  I  fly, 
Away  from  the  anguish  that  far  and  high 
Breaks  on  the  sight. 

"Out  on  the  sea" — say,  stranger,  here, 
What  do  you  know  of  its  waters  drear  'i 
Where  rotten  wrecks  away  on  the  wave 
Bear  brave  men  down  to  a  great  green  grave, 
And  he  who  would  venture  a  word  to  save 
Is  mutineer. 

What  do  you  know  of  the  dark'ning  day 
When  out  from  the  port  she  sails  away  ? 


R.  SPENCER-BROWNE.  495 

A  coffin  for  many  a  man  is  she, 
A  wasted  liulk  unfit  for  sea, 
But  "  passed  "  by  one  whose  cursed  fee 
Has  paved  the  way. 

What  do  you  know  of  the  toil  and  strife. 
The  prayer  for  death — the  curse  for  life  ? 
The  wail  of  the  widow,  the  orphan's  cry — 
When  with  Avell-liued  purse  the  owners  sigh 
As  they  count  the  gain,  from  a  purchased  lie, 
Ah,  "  death  is  rife." 

What  do  you  know  of  the  foetid  hold, 
Of  nights  aloft  in  the  chilling  cold. 
The  days  of  danger,  and  hail,  and  sleet. 
The  master's  curse  for  each  man  he  meet, 
And  food  unfit  for  a  dog  to  eat. 
And  dread  untold  ? 

Xo  more — no  more,  0  white-winged  one. 
On  land  and  sea,  we  must  wander  on, 
The  meadow  fair  and  the  soft  green  tree. 
The  raging  tempest,  and  placid  sea — 
All,  aU  are  cursed,  and  where  shall  we 
Find  peace  alone  ? 

Ah,  fellow  wanderer  here  on  earth. 
Or  spirit  sweet  from  a  fairer  birth, 
What  are  the  toil  and  the  strife  and  woe  1 
What  is  the  ending  of  all  below  1 
Where  ends  the  struggle  that  all  men  know  1 
What  is  it  worth  1 


496  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

[The  "  Poet  of  Queensland  "  was  born  at  Barrowstowness,  Linlith- 
gowshire, Scotland,  in  1835,  emigrating  to  Queensland,  where 
he  has  resided  ever  since,  in  1866.  He  has  chiefly  been  en- 
gaged in  tuition,  having  been  head-master  of  a  State  school 
near  Brisbane.  Brunton  Stephens  is  by  far  the  most  varied 
and  witty  of  Australian  poets.  His  chief  work,  "  Convict 
Once,"  was  published  by  Messrs.  Macmillan  ;  but  all  other 
volumes  have  emanated  from  the  local  press.  His  range 
of  subject  is  very  wide,  from  the  Bappo-like  brilliancy  of  the 
"Godolphin  Arabian,"  to  the  metaphysical  subtlety  of  "Mute 
Discourse."  No  more  entertaining  volume  of  ve?se  can  be 
found  than  Brunton  Stephens'  Miscellaneous  Poems,  originally 
published  by  Watson,  Ferguson,  &  Co.,  of  Brisbane.  Stephens 
is  a  thoroughly  clever,  well-informed  man,  and  his  sketchy 
writings  in  the  Queenslander  secured  a  wide  circle  of  admirers. 
He  married  some  few  years  ago,  and  still,  despite  the  literary 
attractions  of  Melbourne  and  Sydney,  clings  to  Queensland, 
which  colony  is  justly  proud  of  possessing  a  poet  whose  fame  is 
already  Austi'alasian,  if  not  European.] 

"  UNIVERSALLY  RESPECTED:' 


Biggs  was  missing  :  Biggs  had  vanished ;   all  the  town 
was  in  a  ferment ; 
For  if  ever  man  was  looked  to  for  an  edifying  end, 
With  due  mortuary  outfit,  and  a  popular  interment, 
It  was  Biggs,   the   universal  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend. 

But  the  man  had  simply  vanished :  speculation  wove  no 
tissue 
That  would  hold  a  drop  of  water ;  each  new  theory  fell 
flat. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  497 

It  was  most  unsatisfactory,  anil  hanging  on  the  issue 
Were  a  thousand  wagers  ranging  from  a  pony  to  a  hat. 

Not  a  trace  could  search  discover  in  the  township  or 
without  it, 
And  the  river  had  been  dragged  from  morn  till  night 
with  no  avail. 
His  continuity  had  ceased,  and  that  was  all  about  it. 
And  there  wasn't  ev'n  a  grease-spot  left  behind  to  tell 
the  tale. 


That  so  staid  a  man  as  Biggs  was  should  be  swallowed  up 
in  mystery 
Lent  an  increment  to  wonder — he  who  trod  no  doubtful 
paths, 
But  stood  square  to  his  surroundings,  with  no  cloud  upon 
his  history, 
As  the  much  respected  lessee  of  the  Corporation  Baths. 

His  affairs  were  all  in  order ;  since  the  year  the  alligator 
With  a  startled  river  bather  made  attempt  to  coalesce. 
The  resulting  wave  of  decency  had  greater  grown  and 
greater, 
And  the   Corporation  Baths  had  been  a   marvellous 
success. 

Nor  could  trouble  in  the  household  solve  the  riddle  of  his 
clearance, 
For  his  bride  was  now  in  heaven,  and  the  issue  of  the 
match 
Was  a  patient  drudge  whose  virtues  were  as  plain  as  hor 
appearance — 
Just  the  sort  whereto  no  scandal  could  conceivably 
attach. 

2  I 


498  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

So   the   "wliither   and    the    why   alike    mysterious   were 
counted ; 
And  as  faith  steps  in  to  aid  where  baffled  reason  must 
retire, 
There  were  those  averred  so  good  a  man  as  Biggs  might 
well  have  mounted 
Up  to  glory  like  Elijah  in  a  chariot  of  fire ! 

For  indeed  he  was  a  good  man ;  when  he  sat  beside  the 
portal 
Of  the  Bath-house  at  his  pigeon-hole,  a  saint  within  a 
frame. 
We  used  to  think  his  face  was  as  the  face  of  an  im- 
mortal, 
As  he  handed  us  our  tickets,  and  took  payment  for  the 
same. 

And,  oh,  the  sweet  advice  with  which  he  made  of  such 
occasion, 
A  duplicate  detergent  for  our  morals  and  our  limbs — 
For  he  taught  us  that  decorum  was  the  essence  of  sal- 
vation, 
And    that    cleanliness    and    godliness    were    merely 
synonyius. 

But  that  open-air  ablution  in  the  river  was  a  treason 
To  the  purer  instincts,  fit  for  dogs  and  aborigines, 

And  that  wrath  at  such  misconduct  was  the  providential 
reason 
For  the  jaws  of  alligators  and  the  tails  of  stingarees. 

But,  alas,  our  friend  was  gone,  our  guide,  philosopher, 
and  tutor. 
And  we  doubled  our  potations,  just  to  clear  the  inner 
view. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  499 

But  we  only  saw  tlie  darklier  through  the  bottom  of  tho 
pewter, 
And  the  mystery  seemed  likewise  to  be  multiplied  by 
two. 

And  the  worst  was  that  our  failure  to  unriddle  the  enigma 

In  the  "  rags  "  of  rival  towns  was  made  a  byword  and 

a  scoft", 

Till  each  soul  in  the  community  felt  branded  with  the 

stigma 

Of  the  unexplained  damnation  of  poor  Biggs's  taking  off. 

So  a  dozen  of  us  rose  and  swore  this  thing  should  be  no 
longer, 
Though  the  means  that  Nature    furnislied  had   been 
tried  without  result ; 
There  were  forces  supersensual   that   higlier   were  and 
stronger, 
And  with  consentaneous  clamour  we  pronounced  for 
the  occult. 

Then  Joe  Thomson  slung  a  tenner,  and  Jack  Robinson  a 
tanner, 
And  each  according  to  his   means   respectively   dis- 
bursed ; 
And  a  letter  in  your  humble   servant's   most  seductive 
manner, 
"Was  despatched  to  Sludge  the  Medium,  recently  of 
Darlinghurst. 

II. 

**  I  am  Biggs,"  the  spirit  said  ('twas  through  the  Medium's 
lips  he  said  it ; 
But  the  voice  that  spoke,  the  accent  too,  were  Biggs's 
very  own. 


500  A  USTRA  LI  AN  POE  TS. 

Be  it,  therefore,  not  set  down  to  our  unmerited  discredit 
That  collectively  we  sickened  as  we  recognised  the 
tone). 


"  From  a  saurian  interior,  Christian  friends,  I  now  address 
you  "— 
(And  "  0  heaven  ! "  or  its  correlative,  groaned  shud- 
deringly  we) — 
"  Wliich  there  yet  remains  a  scrap  of  my  identity,  for, 
bless  you. 
This  ungodly  alligator's  fast  assimilating  me. 

"For  although  through  nine  abysmal  days  I've  fought 
■with  his  digestion. 

Being  hostile  to  his  processes  and  loth  to  pulpify, 
It  is  rapidly  becoming  a  most  complicated  question, 

How  much  of  me  is  crocodile,  how  much  of  him  is  I. 

"And  oh,  my  friends,  'tis  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  to 
remember 
That  this  sacrilegious  reptile    owed    me   nought   but 
gratitude, 
For  I  bought  him  from  a  showman  twenty  years  since 
come  November, 
And  I  dropped  him  in  the  river  for  his  own  and  others 
good. 

"  It  had  grieved  me  that  the  spouses  of  our  townsmen, 
and  their  daughters. 
Should  be  shocked  by  river  bathers  and  their  indecorous 
ways. 
So  I  cast  my  bread,  that  is  my  alligator,  on  the  waters. 
And  I  found  it,  in  a  credit  balance,  after  many  days. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  501 

"Years   I    waited,   but   at   last   came  the  rumour  long 
expected, 
And  the  out-of-door  ablutionists  forsook  their  wicked 
paths, 
And  the  issues  of  my  handiwork  divinely  were  directed 
In  a  constant  flow  of  custom  to  the  Corporation  Baths. 

"  'Twas  a  weakling  when  I  bought  it ;  'twas  so  young 

that  you  could  pet  it ; 

But  with  all  its  disadvantages  I  reckoned  it  would  do ; 

And  it  did :  oh,  lay  the  moral  well  to  heart,  and  don't 

forget  it — 

Put  decorum  first,  and  all  things  shall  be  added  unto  you. 

"  Lies  !  all  lies  !  I've  done  with  virtue.     Why  should  / 
be  interested 
In  the  cause  of  moral  progress  that  I  served  so  long  in 
vain, 
AVhen  the  fifteen  hundred  odd  I've  so  judiciously  in- 
vested 
"Will  but  go  to  pay  the  debts  of  some  young  rip  who 
marries  Jane  ? 

"But  the  reptile  overcomes  me  ;  my  identity  is  sinking; 
Let  me  hasten  to  the  finish ;  let  my  words  be  few  and 
fit. 
I    was    walking   by    the    river    in    the    starry    silence, 
thinking 
Of  what  Providence  had  done  for  me,  and  I  had  done 
for  it. 

"  I  had  reached  the  saurian's  rumoured  haunt,  where  oft 
in  fatal  folly 
I  had  dropped  garrotcd  dogs  to  keep  his  carnal  craving 
up"— 


502  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

(Said  Joe  Thomson  in  a  ■u-liisper,  "  That  explains  my 
Highland  colley  ! " 
Said   Bob  Williams,  sotto  voce,    "That   explains  my 
Dandy  pup.") 

"  I  had  passed  to  moral  questions,  and  found  comfort  in 
the  notion, 
That  fools  are  none  the  worse  for  things  not  being  what 
they  seem, 
When,  behold  !  a  seeming  log  became  instinct  with  life 
and  motion, 
And  with  sudden  curvature  of  tail  upset  me  in  the 
stream. 

"  Then  my  leg,  as  in  a  vice  " — but  here  the  revelation  fal- 
tered. 
And  the  Medium  rose  and  shook  himself,  remarking 
with  a  smile, 
That  the  requisite  conditions  were  irrevocably  altered, 
For  the  personality  of  Biggs  was  lost  in  crocodile. 


JS'ow,  whether  Sludge's  story  would  succeed  in  holding 
water. 
Is  more,  perhaps,  than  one  has  any  business  to  expect ; 
But  I  know  that  on  the  strength  of  it  I  married  Biggs's 
daughter. 
And  I  found  a  certain  portion  of  the  narrative  correct. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  503 

A  BRISBANE  REVERIE. 

As  I  sit  beside  my  little  study  window,  looking  down 
From  the  heights  of  contemplation  (attic  front)  upon  the 

town — 
(Attic  front,  per  week — with  board,  of  course — a  sov'reign 

and  a  crown) ; — 

As  I  sit — (these  sad  digressions,  though,  are  much  to  be 

deplored), — 
In  my  lonely  little  attic — (it  is  all  I  can  afford ; 
And  I  should  have  mentioned,  washing  not  included  in 

the  board)  ; — 

As  I  sit — (these  wild  parentheses  my  very  soul  abhors) — 
High  above  the  ills  of  life,  its  petty  rumours,  paltry  wars 
(The  attic    back  is  cheaper,  but   it  wants    a    chest   of 
drawers) ; — 

In  the  purpling  light  of  half-past  six  before  the  stars  are 

met, 
While  the  stricken  sun  clings  fondly  to  his  royal  mantle  yet, 
Dying  glorious  on  the  hill-tops  in  reluctant  violet, — 

Just  the  time  that  favours  visions,  blissful  moments  that 

unbar 
The  inner  sight  (assisted  by  a  very  mild  cigar), 
To  behold  the  things  that  are  not,  side  by  side  with  those 

that  are, — 

Just  the  very  light  and  very  time  to  suit  the  bard's  com- 
plaint. 

When  through  present,  past,  and  future  roams  his  soul 
without  restraint — 

When  no  clearer  are  the  things  that  are  than  are  the 
things  that  ain't  3 — 


504  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

With  a  dual  apperception,  metaphysical,  profound. 
Past  and  present  running  parallel,  I  scan  the  scene  around 
(Were  there  two  of  us  the  attic  front  would  only  be  a 
pound). — 

Beneath  mine  eyes  the  buried  past  arises  from  the  tomb, 
Not  cadaverous  or  ghostly,  but  in  all  its  living  bloom — 
(I  would  rather  pay  the  odds  than  have  a  partner  in  my 
room). 

How  the  complex  noiv  contrasteth  with  the  elemental 

then  I 
Tide  of  change,  outflowing  flow  of  ink,  outstripping  stride 

of  pen ! 
(Unless  it  were  .  .  .  but    no  .  .  .  they   only    take    in 

single  men.) 

Where  trackless   wilderness    lay  wide,  a  hundred    ages 

through — 
I  can  see  a  man  with  papers,  from  my  attic  point  of  view, 
WTtio  for  gath'ring  house  assessments  gets  a  very  decent 

screw. 

Where  forest-contiguity  assuaged  the  summer  heats, 

It  is  now  an  argued  question,   when  the  city  Council 

meets, 
If  we  mightn't  buy  a  tree  or  two  to  shade  tlie  glaring 

streets. 

Where  no  sound  announced  the  flight  of  time,  not  even 

crow  of  cock, 
I  can  see  the  gun  that  stuns  the  town  with  monitory 

shock, 
And  a  son  of  that  same  weapon  hired  to  shoot  at  one 

o'clock. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  505 

Where  the  kangaroo  gave  hops,  the  "  old  man  "  fleetest 

of  the  fleet, 
Mrs.  Pursy  gives  a  "  hop  "  to-night  to  all  the  town's  elite, 
But  her  "old  man"  cannot  hop  because  of  bunions  on  his 

feet. 

Where  the  emu,  "  at  its  own  sweet  will,"  went  wandering 

all  the  day, 
And  left  its  bill-prints  on  whate'er  came  handy  in  its 

way, 
There  are  printed  bills  that  advertise  "  The  Emu  of  the 

Bay." 

Where  of  old  with  awful  mysteries  and  diabolic  din, 
They  *'  kippered  "  adolescents  in  the  presence  of  their  kin, 
There's  a  grocer  selling  herrings  kippered,  half-a-crown 
per  tin. 

Where  the  savage  only  used  his  club  to  supplement  his 

fist. 
The  white  man  uses  his   for  friendly   intercourse   and 

whist. 
Not  to  mention  sherry,  port,  bordeaux,  et  cetera — see  list. 

"Where  dress  was  at  a  discount,  or  at  most  a  modest  "  fall," 
Rise  "Criterion,"  "Cosmopolitan,"  and  "City  Clothing 

Hall," 
And  neither  men  nor  women  count  for  much — the  dress 

is  all. 

Where  a  bride's  trousseau  consisted  of  an  extra  coat  of 

grease. 
And  Nature  gave  the  pair  a  suit  of  glossy  black  apiece, 

Now  the  matrimonial  outfit  is  a  perfect  golden  fleece. 


5o6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Where   lorn   widows  wore  the   knee-joints   of   the   late 

lamented  dead, 
We  have  dashing  wives  who  wear  their  living  husband's 

joints  instead — 
Yea,  their  vitals,  for  embellishment  of  bosom,  neck,  and 

head. 

Where  the  blacks,  ignoring  livers,  lived  according  to  their 

wills, 
^ov  knew  that  flesh  is  heir  to  quite  a  lexicon  of  ills, 
Five  white  chemists  in  one  street  grow  rich  through  anti- 
bilious  pills. 

Where  the  only  bell  was  the  bell-bird's  note,  now  many 

mingling  bells 
"  Make  Catholic   the   trembling   air,"  as  famed  George 

Elliot  tells 
Of    another   town    somewhere   between    more    northern 

parallels. 

(But  in  case  the  name  of  Catholic  offend  protesting  ear, 

Let  Wesleyan  or  Baptist  be  interpolated  here, 

Or  that  bells  make  Presbyterian  the  trembling  atmosphere.) 

Where  the  savage  learned  no  love  from  earth,  nor  from 

the  "  shining  frame," 
And  merely  feared  the  devil  under  some  outlandish  name, 
There  are  heaps  of  Britishers  whose  creed  is — very  much 

the  same  ! 

Where  the  gin  was  black — (methinks  'tis  time  the  bard 

was  shutting  up  : 
The  bell  is  ringing  for  the  non-inebriating  cup, 
And  even  attic  bards  must  have  their  little   "  bite  and 

sup.") 


JAMES  DRUNTON  STEPHENS.  507 


TO  A  BLACK  GIN. 

Daughter  of  Eve,  draw  near,  I  would  behold  thee. 
Good  Heavens  !     Could  ever  arm  of  man  enfold  thee  ? 
Did  the  same  ITature,  that  made  Phryne,  mould  thee  1 

Come  thou  to  leeward ;  for  thy  balmy  presence 
Savoureth  not  a  whit  of  mille-fleurescence  ; — 
My  nose  is  no  insentient  excrescence. 

Thou  art  not  beautiful,  I  tell  thee  plainly, 
Oh  !  thou  ungainliest  of  things  ungainly  ; 
AVho  thinks  thee  less  than  hideous  doats  insanely. 

Most  unsesthetical  of  things  terrestrial, 
1  ladst  thou  indeed  an  origin  celestial  1 
Thy  lineaments  are  positively  bestial. 

Yet  thou  my  sister  art,  the  clergy  tell  me ; 
Though,  truth  to  state,  thy  brutish  looks  compel  me 
To  hope  these  parsons  merely  want  to  sell  me. 

A  hundred  times  and  more  I've  heard  and  read  it ; 
But  if  Saint  Paul  himself  came  down  and  said  it, 
Upon  my  soul  I  could  not  give  it  credit. 

"  God's  image  cut  in  ebony,"  says  some  one ; 

'Tis  to  be  hoped  some  day  thou  may'st  become  one ; 

Thy  present  image  is  a  very  rum  one. 

"  Thy  face  the  human  face  divine  ! "  .  .  .  0  Moses  ! 
Whatever  trait  divine  thy  face  discloses, 
Some  vile  Olympian  cross-play  presupposes. 


So8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Thy  nose  appeareth  but  a  transverse  section  : 
Thy  mouth  hath  no  particular  direction, — 
A  flabby-rimmed  abyss  of  imperfection. 

Thy  skull  development  mine  eye  displeases ; 
Thou  wilt  not  suiFer  much  from  brain  diseases ; 
Thy  facial  angle  forty-five  degrees  is. 

The  coarseness  of  thy  tresses  is  distressing, 
With  grease  and  raddle  firmly  coalescing, 
I  cannot  laud  thy  system  of  "  top-di"essing." 

Thy  dress  is  somewhat  scant  for  proper  feeling ; 
As  is  thy  flesh,  too, — scarce  thy  bones  concealing ; 
Thy  calves  unquestionably  want  revealing. 

Thy  rugged  skin  is  hideous  with  tattooing, 
And  legible  with  hieroglyphic  wooing — 
Sweet  things  in  art  of  some  fierce  lover's  doing. 

For  tliou  some  lover  hast,  I  bet  a  guinea, 
Some  partner  in  thy  fetid  ignominy, 
The  raison  d'etre  of  this  piccaninny. 

What  must  he  be  whose  eye  thou  hast  delighted  ? 
His  sense  of  beauty  hopelessly  benighted ! 
The  canons  of  his  taste  how  badly  sighted ! 

What  must  his  gauge  be,  if  thy  features  pleased  him  ? 
If  lordship  of  such  limbs  as  thine  appeased  him. 
It  was  not  "  calf  love  "  certainly  that  seized  him. 

And  is  he  amorously  sympathetic  1 

And  doth  he  kiss  thee  ?  ....  Oh  my  soul  prophetic  ! 

The  very  notion  is  a  strong  emetic  ! 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  509 

And  doth  he  smooth  thine  hours  with  oily  talking  ? 

And  take  thee  conjugally  out-a-walking  ? 

And  crown  thy  transports  with  a  toni-a-hawking  1 

I  guess  his  love  and  anger  are  combined  so  ; 
His  passions  on  thy  shoulders  are  defined  so ; 
"  His  passages  of  love  "  are  underlined  so. 

Tell  me  thy  name.     What  ? .  .  .  Helen  ? .  .  .  (0,  (Enone, 
That  name  bequeathed  to  one  so  foul  and  bony, 
Avengeth  well  thy  ruptured  matrimony  !) 

Eve's  daughter  !  with  that  skull !  and  that  complexion  ? 

What  principle  of  "  Natural  Selection  " 

Gave  thee  with  Eve  the  most  remote  connection  1 

Sister  of  L.  E.  L.  ...  of  Mrs.  Stowe,  too  ! 
Of  E.  B.  Browning !  Harriet  Martineau,  too  ! 
Do  theologians  know  where  fibbers  go  to  1 

Of  dear  George  Elliot,  whom  I  worship  daily  ! 
Of  Charlotte  Bronte,  and  Joanna  Baillie  ! — 
Methinks  that  theory  is  rather  "  scaly." 

Thy  primal  parents  came  a  period  later — 
The  handiwork  of  some  vile  imitator ; 
I  fear  they  had  the  devil's  imprimatur. 

This  in  the  retrospect. — Now,  what's  before  thee? 

The  white  man's  heaven,  I  fear,  would  simply  bore  thee  ; 

Ten  minutes  of  doxology  would  floor  thee. 

Thy  Paradise  should  be  some  land  of  Goshen, 
Where  appetite  would  be  thy  sole  devotion. 
And  surfeit  be  the  climax  of  emotion ; — 


5IO  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

A  land  of  Bunya-bunyas  towering  splendid  — 
Of  honey  bags  on  every  tree  suspended, — 
A  Paradise  of  sleep  and  riot  blended ; — 

Of  tons  of  'baccy,  and  tons  more  to  follow, — 
Of  Wallaby  as  much  as  thou  couldst  swallow,^ 
Of  hollow  trees  with  possums  in  the  hollow  ; — 

There,  undismayed  by  frost  or  flood,  or  thunder, 
As  joyous  as  the  skies  thou  roamest  under, 
There  shouldst  thou  .  .  .  Cooey  !  .  .  Stop !    She's  off. 
Iso  wonder. 


QUART  POT  CREEK. 

On  an  evening  ramble  lately,  as  I  wandered  on  sedately, 
Linking  curious  fancies,  modern,  mediaeval,  and  antique, — 
Suddenly   the   sun    descended,    and    a    radiance    ruby- 
splendid. 
With  the  gleam  of  water  blended,  thrilled  my  sensitive 

physique — 
Thrilled  me,   filled  me  with  emotion  to  the  tips  of  my 
physique, 
Fired  my  eye  and  flushed  my  cheek. 

Heeding  not  where  I  was  going,  I  had  wandered,  all  un- 
knowing 

Where  a  river  gently  flowing  caught  the  radiant  ruby- 
streak  ; 

And  this  new-found  stream  beguiling  my  sedateness  into 
smilinff, 


JA  MES  BR  UNTON  STEPHENS.  5 1 1 

Set  me  classically  styling  it  with  Latin  names  and  Greek — 
Names  Idalian  and  Castalian,  such  as  lovers  of  the  Greek 
Koll  like  quids  within  their  cheek. 


On  its  marge  was  many  a  burrow,  many  a  mound,  and 
many  a  furrow, 

Where  the  fossickcrs  of  fortune  play  at  Nature's  hide-and- 
seek  ; 

And  instead  of  bridge  to  span  it,  there  were  stepping- 
stones  of  granite, 

And  where'er  the  river  ran,  it  seemed  of  hidden  wealth 
to  speak. 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger,  and  I,  too,  was  fain  to 
speak :  — 
I  assumed  a  pose  plastique. 

"Stream,"  said  I,  "I'll  celebrate  thee! 

Khymes  and  rhythms  galore  await  thee ! 

In  the  weekly  '  Poet's  Corner '  I'll  a  niche  for  thee  be- 
speak : 

But,  to  aid  my  lucubration,  thou  must  let  thine  appella- 
tion, 

Tell  thy  Naiad-designation — for  the  journal  of  next 
■week — 

Give  thy  sweet  Pactolian   title   to  my   poem    of   next 
week. 
Whisper,  whisper  it — in  Greek  !  " 

But  the  river  gave  no  token,  and  the  name  remained 
unspoken. 

Though  I  kept  apostrophising  till  my  voice  became  a 
shriek ; — 

When  there  hove  in  sight  the  figure  of  a  homeward  veer- 
ing digger, 


512  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Looming  big,  and  looming  bigger,  and  ejecting  clouds  of 

reek — 
In  fuliginous  advance  emitting  clouds  of  noisome  reek 
From  a  tube  beneath  his  beak. 

"Neighbour  mine,"  said  I,  "and  miner," — here  I  showed 

a  silver  shiner — 
"For  a  moment,  and  for  sixpence,  take  thy  pipe  from 

out  thy  cheek. 
This  the  guerdon  of  thy  fame  is ;  very  cheap  indeed  the 

same  is ; 
Tell  me  only  what  the  name  is — ('tis  the  stream  whereof 

I  speak) — 
Name  the  ISTaiad-name  Pactolian  !     Digger,  I  adjure  thee 

speak  ! " 
Quoth  the  digger,  "  Quart  Pot  Creek." 

0  Pol !  Edepol !  Mecastor  !     0  most  luckless  poetaster  ! 

1  went  home  a  triple  faster  in  a  twitter  of  a  pique ; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  rhyming  being 
Ever  yet  was  cursed  with  seeing,  in  his  poem  for  the 

week. 
Brook  or  river  made  immortal  in  his  poem  for  the  week, 
With  such  name  as  "  Quart  Pot  Creek  ! " 

But  the  river,   never  minding,  still  is  winding,  still  is 

winding, 
By  the  gardens  where  the  Mongol  tends  the  cabbage  and 

the  leek  ; 
And  the  ruby's  radiance  nightly  touches  it  with  farewell 

lightly. 
But  the  name  sticks  to  it  tightly, — and  this  sensitive 

physique, 
The  already-mentioned  (vide  supra)  sensitive  physique 
Shudders  still  at  "  Quart  Pot  Creek  !  " 


JAMES  B RONTON  STEPHENS.  513 


THE  POWER  OF  SCIENCE. 

•*  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame," 

Are  but  the  legacies  of  apes, 
"With  interest  on  the  same. 

ITow  oft  in  studious  hour  do  I 

Recall  those  moments,  gone  too  soon. 

When  midway  in  the  hall  I  stood, 
Beside  the  Dichobune. 

Through  the  Museum-windows  played 
The  light  on  fossil,  cast,  and  chart ; 

Ami  she  was  there,  my  Gwendoline, 
The  mammal  of  my  heart ! 

She  leaned  against  the  glyptodon. 
The  monster  of  the  sculptured  tooth ; 

She  looked  a  fossil  specimen 
Herself,  to  tell  the  truth. 

She  leaned  against  the  glyptodon, 
She  fixed  her  glasses  on  her  nose  ; 

One  Pallas-foot  drawn  back  displayed 
The  azure  of  her  hose. 

Few  virtues  had  she  of  her  own — 

She  borrowed  them  from  time  and  space ; 

Her  age  was  eocene,  although 
Post-tertiary  her  place. 

The  Irish  elk  that  near  us  stood 
(Megaceros  Hibernicus), 


514  A  USTRA  LI  AN  POETS. 

Scarce  dwarfed  her ;  while  I  bowed  beneath 
Her  stately  overplus. 

I  prized  her  prediluvian  height, 

Her  palaeozoic  date  of  birth, 
For  these  to  a  scientific  eye 

Had  scientific  worth. 

She  had  some  crotchets  of  her  own, 
My  sweet  viviparous  Gwendoline, 

She  loved  nie  best  when  I  would  sing 
Her  ape-descent  and  mine. 

I  raised  a  wild  pansophic  lay  ; 

(The  public  fled  the  dismal  tones) ; — 
I  struck  a  chord  that  suited  well 

That  entourage  of  bones. 

I  sang  the  very  dawn  of  life, 

Cleared  at  a  bound  the  infinite  chasm 

That  sunders  inorganic  dust 
From  sky-borne  protoplasm, 

I  smote  the  stiffest  chords  of  sonpr, 
I  showed  her  in  a  glorious  burst 

How  universal  unity 
Was  dual  from  the  first. 

How  primal  germs  contained  in  one 
The  beau-ideal  and  the  belle  ; 

And  how  the  "  mystery  of  life  " 
Is  just  a  perfect  cell. 

I  showed  how  sense  itself  began 
In  senseless  gropings  after  sense ; — 


JAMES  B  RUN  TON  STEPHENS.  5:5 

(She  seemed  to  find  it  so  herself 
Her  gaze  was  so  intense). 

And  how  the  very  need  of  light 

Conceived  and  visual  organs  bore ; 
Until  an  optic  want  evolved 

The  spectacles  she  wore. 

How  headless  molluscs  making  head 

Against  the  fashions  of  their  line, 
On  pulpy  maxims  turned  their  backs 

And  specialised  a  spine. 

How  landward  longings  seized  on  fish, 

Fretted  the  type  within  their  eggs, 
And  in  amphibian  issue  dif- 

Ferentiated  legs. 

I  hopped  the  quaint  marsupials 

And  into  higher  mammals  ran, 
And  through  a  subtle  fugue  I  stole 

From  Lemurs  up  to  Man. 

How  tails  were  lost — but  when  I  reached 

This  saddest  part  of  all  my  lay, 
She  dropped  the  corners  of  her  moutli 

And  turned  her  face  away. 

And  proud  to  see  my  lofty  love 

So  sweetly  wince,  so  coyly  shrink, 
I  woke  a  moving  threnody — ■ 

I  sang  the  missing  link. 

And  when  I  spake  of  vanished  kin, 
Of  Simian  races  dead  and  gone, 


Si6  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

The  wave  of  sorrow  from  her  eyes 
Half-drowned  the  glyptodon. 


I  turned  to  other,  brighter  themes, 
And  glancing  at  our  different  scales, 

I  showed  how  lady  beetles  are 
Eobuster  than  the  males. 


I  sang  the  Hymenoptera, 

How  insect  brides  are  sought  and  gut ; 
How  stridulation  of  the  male 

First  hinted  what  was  what. 

And  when — perchance  too  fervently — 
I  smote  upon  the  chord  of  sex, 

I  saw  the  tardy  spark  of  love 
Blaze  up  behind  her  specs. 

She  listened  with  a  heightened  grace. 
She  blushed  a  blush  like  ruby  wine, 

Then  bent  her  stately  head,  and  clinked 
Her  spectacles  on  mine, 

A  mighty  impulse  rattled  through 

Her  well-articulated  frame ; 
And  into  one  delighted  ear 

She  breathed  my  Christian  name, 

And  whispered  that  my  song  had  given 
Her  secret  thought  substantial  shape. 

For  she  had  long  considered  me 
The  offshoot  of  an  ape. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  517 

She  raised  me  from  the  enchanted  floor, 
And  as  my  lips  her  shoulder  met, 

BetAveen  two  asthmas  of  embrace 
She  called  me  marmosette. 

I  strove  to  calm  her  down ;  she  grew 

Serener  and  serener, 
And  so  I  won  my  Gwendoline, 

My  vertebrate  congener. 


ONCE  MORE. 

"INTERMISSA   DIU   BELLA." 

I  HAD  not  thought  again  to  be 

A  dreamer  of  such  dreams  as  these  j 

The  springtime  is  no  more  for  me ; 
My  summer  died  beyond  the  seas. 

From  what  untimely  source  begin 

These  stirrings  of  the  life  within  1 

I  had  not  thought  again  to  taste 
The  bitter  sweet,  the  joyous  pain, 

I  dreamed  that  I  had  trodden  waste. 
Beyond  the  power  of  sun  or  rain, 

The  soil  that  grew  the  passion  fruit ; 

Then,  whence  this  blossom  underfoot  ? 

I  had  not  thought  again  to  see 
Beyond  the  homely  pale  of  truth ; 

The  lights  and  shapes  of  witchery, 
That  glorify  the  skies  of  youth, 

I  only  knew  as  perished  things ; 

Whence,  then,  this  flash  of  angel  wings  ? 


5i8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

How  spend  the  day,  yet  save  the  hours  ? 

I  had  my  day ;  the  hours  are  fled. 
How  eat  the  fruit,  yet  hold  the  flowers  ? 

I  ate  the  fruit ;  the  flowers  are  dead. 
0,  what  divine  or  fiendish  art 
Hath  twined  fresh  tendrils  round  my  heart ' 

I  said,  'tis  good  to  he  alone, 
No  alien  hand  to  urge  or  check. 

I  said,  my  spirit  is  my  own. 

To  loose  or  bind,  to  save  or  wreck. 

I  trod  on  Love,  called  Reason  lord  ;— 

Lo,  whence  this  subtle  silken  chord  1 

0,  who  shall  tell  if  this  be  strength 
Re-risen,  or  ghost  of  old  defect  1 

The  truth  of  manhood  come  at  length. 
Or  weakness  born  of  purpose  wrecked  '2 

I  only  know  it  is  the  whole 

Arch-craving  of  a  hungry  soul. 

I  only  know  that  all  the  hordes 
Of  buried  hopes  and  jealousies 

Are  risen  again  and  crossing  swords, 
And  that  'twas  but  an  armistice, 

A  breathing  time  'twixt  strife  and  strife, 

Which  I  had  deemed  a  peace  for  life. 

0,  who  shall  tell  where  duty  lies 
To  urge,  repress,  advance,  or  stay ; 

To  grasp  at  good  in  Beauty's  guise, 
Or  brush  the  pretty  lure  away. 

Ere  doubtful  war  of  hopes  and  fears 

Consume  the  hoarded  strength  of  years  ? 


JAMES  DRUNTON  STEPHENS.  y-9 


A  USTRA  LI  A  N  A  NTHEM. 

;Maker  of  earth  and  sea, 
What  shall  we  render  Thee  1 

All  ours  is  Thine  : — 
All  that  our  land  doth  hold, 
Increase  of  field  and  fold, 
Kich  ores  and  virgin  gold 

Thine— Thine— all  Thine  ! 

What  can  Thy  children  bring  I 
AVhat  save  the  voice  to  sing, 

"  All  things  are  Thine  1  "— 
What  to  Thy  throne  convey  1 
What  save  the  voice  to  pray, 
«  God  bless  our  land  alway. 

This  land  of  Thine  1 " 

O  !  with  Thy  mighty  hand 
Guard  Thou  the  motherland. 

She,  too,  is  Thine. 
Lead  her  where  honour  lies, 
We  beneath  other  skies 
Still  clinging  daughterwisc, 
Hers,  yet  all  Thine. 

Britons  of  ev'ry  creed. 
Teuton  and  Celt  agreed, 

Let  us  be  Thine. 
One  in  all  noble  fame. 
Still  be  our  path  the  same, 
Onward  in  Freedom's  name. 

Upward  in  Thine  ! 


520  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

THE  DOMINION  OF  AUSTRALIA. 

(a  forecast.) 

She  is  not  yet,  but  he  whose  ear 
Thrills  to  that  finer  atmosphere 
"Where  footfalls  of  appointed  things, 

Reverberant  of  days  to  be, 
Are  heard  in  forecast  echoings, 

Like  wave-beats  from  a  viewless  sea — 
Hears  in  the  voiceful  tremors  of  the  sky 
Auroral  heralds  whispering  "  She  is  nigh." 

She  is  not  yet ;  but  he  whose  sight 
Foreknows  the  advent  of  the  light, 
Whose  soul  to  morning  radiance  turns 

Ere  niglit  her  curtain  hath  withdrawn, 
And  in  its  quivering  folds  discerns 

The  mute  monitions  of  the  dawn, 
With  urgent  sense  strained  onward  to  descry 
Her  distant  tokens,  starts  to  find  her  nigh. 

'Not  yet  her  day.     How  long  "  not  yet  1 " 
There  comes  the  flush  of  violet ! 
And  heavenward  faces,  all  aflame 

With  sanguine  imminence  of  morn, 
Wait  but  the  sun-kiss  to  proclaim 

The  Day  of  the  Dominion  born. 
Prelusive  baptism  ! — ere  the  natal  hour 
Named  with  the  name  and  prophecy  of  power. 

Already  here  to  hearts  intense 
A  spirit  force,  transcending  sense. 
In  heights  unsealed,  in  deeps  unstirred, 
Beneath  the  calm,  above  the  storm. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  521 

She  waits  tlie  incorporating  word 

To  bid  her  tremble  into  form, 
Already,  like  divining-rods,  men's  souls 
Bend  down  to  where  the  unseen  river  rolls ; — 

For  even  as,  from  sight  concealed, 
By  never  flush  of  dawn  revealed, 
Nor  e'er  illumed  by  golden  noon, 

Nor  sunset-streaked  with  crimson  bar, 
Nor  silver-spanned  by  wake  of  moon, 

Nor  visited  of  any  star, 
Beneath  these  lands  a  river  waits  to  bless 
(So  men  divine)  our  utmost  wilderness, — 

Eolls  dark,  but  yet  shall  know  our  skies, 
Soon  as  the  wisdom  of  the  wise 
Conspires  with  nature  to  disclose 

The  blessing  prisoned  and  unseen. 
Till  round  our  lessening  wastes  there  glows 

A  perfect  zone  of  broadening  green, — 
Till  all  our  land,  Australia  Felix  called, 
Become  one  Continent-Isle  of  Emerald  ; — 

So  flows  beneath  our  good  and  ill 
A  viewless  stream  of  common  will, 
A  gathering  force,  a  present  might, 

That  from  its  silent  depths  of  gloom 
At  Wisdom's  voice  shall  leap  to  light, 

And  hide  our  barren  fields  in  bloom, 
Till,  all  our  sundering  lines  with  love  o'ergrown, 
Our  bounds  shall  be  the  girdlin"  seas  alone. 


522  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


THE  BOY  CRUSADER. 

"  0  FATHER  !  is  that  Jerusalem — 
Those  walls  and  towers  so  strong  1 " 

"  Ho,  boy,  we  are  yet  in  our  own  fair  France, 
That  is  only  Avignon." 


"  0  father  !  are  these  the  Jordan's  banks  1 
Let  us  rest  in  those  vineyards  fair." 

"  Ho,  boy,  these  are  only  the  banks  of  the  Rhone, 
And  we  may  not  linger  there." 


"  0  father  !  I  fear  them — the  waves  !  the  waves  ! 

Is  Jerusalem  over  the  sea  ? " 
"  Ay,  over  the  sea  and  then  over  the  hills — 

But  cling,  my  boy,  to  me." 


"  0  father  !  is  that  Jerusalem 
Like  a  shell  of  gold  in  the  bay  1 " 

"  Nay,  it  is  only  Palermo,  boy, 
And  this  is  Saint  Eosalie's  day." 


"  0  father  !  I  feared  the  sea,  but  more 

I  fear  this  burning  sand." 
'•'  Good  cheer,  my  boy,  take  heart  of  grace ; 

We  tread  upon  Holy  Land." 


"  O  father  !  can  it  be  Holy  Land, 
With  all  this  blood  and  death  ?  " 


JAMES  BRUNTOX  STEPHENS.  523 

"  That  was  Acre  ■we  stormed,  my  Loy, 
Kow  let  us  to  Xazareth." 


"  0  father  !  the  hills  are  so  high — so  high  ! 

Is  Jerusalem  very  far  1  " 
"Hush,  hush,  my  boy,  aud  I'll  tell  you  the  tale 

Of  the  kintrs  Avho  followed  the  Star." 


*'  0  father  !  the  hills  are  so  steep — so  steep  ! 

Will  Jerusalem  soon  be  near  1 " 
"  Boy,  what  had  it  been  had  you  carried  the  cross 

Instead  of  your  father's  spear  !" 


"  0  father  !  I  am  weary  and  faint, 

This  must  be  Calvary  !  " 
"  Good  cheer,  my  boy,  but  one  hill  more, 

Jerusalem  is  nif^h. 


"  The  men-at-arms  have  passed  the  ridge, 
Hark,  boy,  how  the  warriors  sing  ! " 

"  I  only  hear  the  sound  of  harps 
And  waters  murmuring." 


"Wake,  boy,  this  is  no  time  to  fail ! 

O  best  of  happy  hours  ! 
Behold  at  length  Jerusalem — 

Its  gates,  and  domes,  and  towers  !  " 


524  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  Father,  I  see  Jerusalem, 
Ah,  nearer  than  you  deem  ! " 

"  Your  eyes  are  closed,  you  see  it  not, 
Or  see  it  in  a  dream  ! 


"  Your  eyes  are  closed,  my  boy,  my  boy  ! 

Your  face  is  to  the  west !  " 
"  Father,  I  see  it  overhead, 

And,  oh,  so  full  of  rest ! 


"There  are  little  children  clothed  in  white, 

And  angels  leading  them  ; 
There  are  streets  of  gold  and  gates  of  pearl  I 

At  last  Jerusalem  ! 


"  And  our  little  Marie  is  beckoning  me, 

In  her  hand  a  diadem. 
Father,  I  must  go  on  before  : 

We'll  meet  in  Jerusalem." 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  DOVES. 

The  angels  stood  in  the  court  of  the  King, 

And  into  the  midst,  through  the  open  door,        * 

Weeping  came  one  whose  broken  wing 
Piteously  trailed  on  the  golden  floor. 

Angel  was  she,  and  woman,  and  dove  : 

Dove  and  angel  all  womanly  blent 
With  the  virginal  charm  that  is  worshipped  of  love, 

On  the  hither  side  of  the  firmament. 


JAMES  DRUNTON  STEPHENS.  525 

"N^Hicre  a  rainbow  hiJetli  the  holiest  place, 
Thither  she  moved,  and  there  she  kneeled ; 

And  fain  with  her  wings  would  have  veiled  her  face, 
Ere  the  bow  should  be  lifted,  and  God  revealed. 

'Tis  the  angels'  wont,  and  afresh  she  wept. 
As  with  maimed  pinion  she  strove  in  vain, 

And  tremor  on  tremor  convulsively  swept 
O'er  her  plumes  in  a  shuddering  iris  of  pain. 

And  the  angels  who  dwell  from  sorrow  remote 
Gazed  on  her  woe  as  a  marvellous  thing : 

For  they  wist  but  of  pain  from  its  echoes  that  float 
In  the  strange  new  songs  that  the  ransomed  sing. 

"  Sister,"  at  length  said  a  sliining  one, 

"  To  whom  earth's  doves  for  a  care  were  given, 

"What  hast  thou  done,  or  left  undone. 

That  grief  through  thee  should  be  known  in  heaven  » 

"  When  together  for  joy  the  angels  sang. 
Calling  the  new-made  world  to  rejoice ; 

Sweeter  than  all  hosannas  that  rang 

Was  the  trembling  rapture  that  thrilled  thy  voice. 

"For  thine  was  the  grace  to  minister  there — • 
0  favoured  child  of  the  heavenly  host ! — 

To  the  sacred  and  lovely  lives  that  wear 
The  mystic  shape  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

"And  we  marked  thy  flight  as  the  flight  of  a  dove, 
Till  the  luminous  vapours  around  thee  curled, 

And  we  said,  '  She  is  glad  in  her  errand  of  love, 
To  the  happy  glades  of  the  new-born  world.' 


526  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"And  now  thou  returnest  woe-stricken  as  one 
That  hath  fallen  from  grace  and  is  unforgiven. 

What  hast  thou  done,  or  left  undone, 

That  grief  through  thee  should  be  known  in  heaven?" 

Faint  was  her  voice  as  an  echo  heard 

From  the  past  by  the  soul  in  dreamful  mood, 

Sweet  and  sad  as  the  plaint  of  a  bird 
Moaning  forlorn  in  solitude. 

"  I  tended  my  doves,"  she  said  through  her  tears, 
"  By  day  and  by  night,  in  storm  and  calm. 

Happily  flew  the  uncounted  years 

In  bowers  of  myrtle  and  groves  of  palm. 

"  Many,  alas,  were  the  beautiful  dead, 
But  the  life  of  the  race  was  always  new, 

For,  ever  ere  one  generation  fled, 
Out  of  its  love  another  grew. 

"  And  many  a  dove  for  man's  sake  died. 

Noted  in  heaven  with  none  offence, 
Save  when  the  heart  of  the  cruel  took  pride 

In  slaying  the  witness  of  innocence. 

"  "When  countless  seasons  had  come  and  gone. 

Come  and  gone  as  a  happy  dream, 
One  noon  of  summer  I  lingered  upon 

The  eastward  marge  of  a  sacred  stream. 

"  And  lo,  'mid  a  crowd  on  the  further  side, 
That  stood  in  the  stream  or  knelt  on  the  sod, 

I  saw — though  a  veil  of  flesh  did  hide 

The  splendour  of  Godhead — the  Son  of  God. 


JAMES  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  y.7 

And  even  as  I  gazed,  the  azure  above 
Burst  into  glory  that  dimmed  the  sun  ; 

And  the  Spirit  of  God  in  the  form  of  a  dove 
I  saw  descend  on  the  Holy  One. 

"  I  deemed  that  my  task  was  over  then ; 

•  'Tis  the  dawn,'  I  said,  '  of  the  reign  of  love  ; 
Kenceforth  my  doves  will  be  safe  with  men, 

Since  God  hath  hallowed  the  form  of  the  dove.' 

"  Then  I  soared  aloft,  but  again  returned  ; 

For  I  said  in  my  heart,  '  I  will  not  cease 
From  my  care,  till  man  from  His  lij^s  hath  learned 

That  the  birds  have  a  share  in  the  Gospel  of  Peace.' 

"And  it  chanced  on  a  day  in  the  soft  sj^ringtide, 
"When  birds  were  joyous  and  love  was  sweet, 

1  saw  the  Lord  on  a  mountain  side, 

And  with  Him  were  tAvelve,  who  sat  at  His  feet. 

"And  I  heard  Him  say,  '  Xot  a  sparrow  doth  fall 
To  the  ground  but  your  Father  taketh  note,' 

Then  all  the  air  grew  musical, 

And  song  awoke  in  each  warbling  throat. 

"For  into  bird-music  the  message  passed 
And  from  choir  to  choir  in  melody  ran ; 

And  I  said,  *  My  mission  is  over  at  last. 

Farewell,  my  doves.     Ye  are  safe  with  men.' 

"  Weeping,  yet  gladsome,  I  soared  aloft, 
Being  fain  of  the  glories  of  other  spheres, 

"Whose  beckoning  lustre  had  lured  me  oft 
In  starry  midnights  of  bygone  years. 


5:8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"  And  on  seas  of  ether  and  isles  of  light 
Through  ages  of  joy  I  floated  or  trod, 

Till  I  chanced  on  an  angel  in  upward  flight, 
Bearing  an  infant  home  to  God. 

"  And  a  waft  of  earth  from  the  flowers  that  lay- 
On  the  young  dead  breast  came  sweet  and  faint  j 

And  again,  dream-echoed  from  far  away, 

I  heard  in  the  woodlands  the  turtle's  plaint. 

"  For  memory  woke  at  the  flower's  sweet  breath, 
And  my  spirit  yearned  to  the  earth  again. 

And  I  cried,  '  Canst  thou  tell,  0  angel  of  death, 
How  fare  my  doves  at  the  hands  of  men  1 ' 

*' '  Sad  is  their  lot,'  the  angel  sighed  ; 

'  For  the  pleasure  of  man  they  suffer  pain  ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  cruel  taketh  pride 

To  slay  thy  doves  and  to  number  the  slain. 

"  I  knew  no  more  till  the  vapours  of  earth 
Clung  to  my  wings,  and  a  pealing  sound 

Smote  on  mine  ear,  and  voices  of  mirth ; 

And  beneath  me  a  dove  fell  dead  to  the  ground. 

"  Leave  me  with  God ;  for  ye  cannot  know 
How  death  takes  shape  in  the  human  hand, 

Xor  the  subtle  devices  that  work  for  woe ; 
But  the  Lord  will  hear  and  will  understand. 

"And  if,  as  I  clove  my  unseen  way 

Between  my  doves  and  the  deadly  rain. 

It  was  given  unto  me  to  become  as  they. 

To  share  their  wounds  and  to  know  their  pain — 


GERALD  H.  SUPPLE.  529 

"  Surely  the  rather  will  God  give  ear 

To  one  who  knoweth  what  He  hath  known ; 

Surely  the  rather  will  Jesus  hear, 

"Who  suffered  as  I,  for  love  of  His  own. 

"  Can  it  be  that  the  great  Lord  doth  not  know 
How  Christ  is  needed  on  earth  again  1 

Rise,  lingering  curtain  !  that  I  may  show 

The  wounds  of  my  doves  and  may  pray  for  men." 


Slowly  the  rainbow  rose,  parting  in  twain ; 

And,  lo,  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  of  love 
There  stood  a  Lamb  as  it  had  been  slain ; 

And  over  the  throne  there  brooded  a  Dove. 


GERALD  H.  SUPPLE. 

[A  Victorian,  now  living  at  Auckland,  New  Zealand.  His  magnum 
opus,  the  "Dream  of  Dainpier,"  appeared  in  the  Melbourne 
Jteview,  whose  proprietors,  through  one  of  their  number, 
Patchett  Martin,  liave  courteously  allowed  it  to  appear  here.J 

THE  DREAM  OF  DAMPIER. 

AN   AUSTRALIAN    FORESHADOWING — A.D.   1 686. 


Dampier,   the   buccaneer !      His   swift   ship   sailed    the. 

Eastern  seas — 
Where  night  seems  spectral  noon,  and  tropic  moon  and 

Pleiades 

2  L 


530  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Like  lamps  of  silver  showed  with  ghostly  charm  each 

island  shore 

"What  time  hay-broken  Celebes 
Arose  to  him  in  shadows  dim  beneath  the  vesper  star — 
Where  Javas'  peaks  in  forest  soar, 
At  day-break  seen  afar — 
When  the  land-breeze  odorous  blows  at  eve  from  Ter- 

nate's  groves  of  balm — 
Where  the  graceful  cocoa  crowns  the  towering  cliffs  of 

wild  Coram, 
And  New  Guinea's  purple  mountains  fringe  the  noon- 
tide's golden  calm — 
Thro'  myriad  groups  where  ocean  in  an  endless  sylvan 

maze 
AVinds  loitering  in  a  thousand  straits,  a  thousand  clasping 

bays. 
And  every  change  with  lovelier  scene  the  gazer's  eye  be- 
guiles— 
Of  cape  and  coast,  a  fairy  realm ! — a  rainbow  arch  of  isles ! — • 
In  whose  glades  the  rosy  hours  'mid  the  wood's  green 

twilight  peep 
Islets  each  an  aphrodite  risen    bright-haired    from    the 

deep  ! 

So  pure  of  earth  and  air  the  sheen — 
So  azure  clear  the  waves  between 
That  the  dark  boatman  from  his  prow  sees  fathoms  down 

below, 
The    fishes    palely  -  sparkling     glide,     the     coral     redly 

glow ; 
While  birds  o'erhead  of  plumage  in  all  hues  of  radiance 

spun, 
Dart  from  tlie  trees  like  gorgeous  clouds  betwixt  him  and 

the  sun ! 


GERALD  H.  SUPPLE.  531 


Dampier,  those  beauteous  straits  and  seas,  he  sailed  them 

all  observantly ; 
Xo  seaman  rude,  he  viewed  with  thoughtful  brain,  with 

keen,  discerning  eye ; 
The    first   of   mariners    was   he  to  note   the  winds   and 

tides, 
In  many  a  chart  and  scroll,  for  long  the  shipman's  surest 

guides ; 
The  first  of  Englishmen  was  he  to  touch  this  mainland's 

shore — 
The  Terra  Australis.     'Tis  by-past  some  nine  score  years 

or  more 

Since  he  came  in  that  martial  companie, 
Singing  their  sea-songs  carelessly — 
Wild  carols,  half  Spanish  or  Caribbee  ! 
Little  wot  they — little  recked  they  of  the  future  here  in 

store, 
Aye  a  rugged  crew,  and  staunch  I  wis,  as  any  that  in  those 

times 
Had  changed  for  the  music  of  gale  and  gun.  Bow-bells  or 

the  Bristol  chimes — 

One  of  those  bands  from  many  lands 
"Who,  friends  as  "  Brethren  of  the  Coast " — their  foe  the 

flag  of  Spain, 
Still  lived  that  mad  "West  Indian  life  of  the  old  Tortuga 

strain. 
Rude  revels  in  Port  Royal,  wild   war  on  the   Spanish 

Main! 
Oft  would  he  read  when  the  day  was  done,  while  others 

the  bowl  would  quaff, 
And,  pondering  over  some  brass-bound  tome,  he'd  hear 

them  slyly  laugh  — 


532  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

"An  Oxford  clerk,  I  trow,  our  bookish  messmate  sliouki 

have  been  ! " 
Did  he  sling  his  hammock  in  Gray's  Inn,  or  a  roystering 

brigantine  1 
So  would  they  jest,  but  time  would  be  when  the  lightest 

forgot  to  sneer. 
And  hailed  boti  camarado  in  a  blither  Will  Dampier ! 
If  in  the  offing  they  spied  a  sail  and  the  Spaniard  hove 

in  sight, 
Out-pealing  thro'  her  range  of  teeth  sharp  challenge  to  the 

fight, 
Then,  prompt  and  steady,  his  hand  was  ready,  his  cutlass 

bare  and  bright ; 
And  boarding  the  foe  when  the  bristling  pikes  thro'  cannon 

smoke  appear. 
The  studious  seaman — aye  ! — again  was  the  headlong  buc- 
caneer, 
A   sea-dog   proved   for   bite   and   breed !     Nathless,    he 

loved  his  books. 
Like  his  Sheffield  sword,  or  Spanish  gold,  or  a  winsome 

woman's  looks. 

III. 

Calm  was  the  night — a  midnight  in  the  Arafura  Sea ; 
The  sea  to  windward — wooded  land  unknown  and  wild 

alee. 
Beneath  a  headland,  forest  crowned — athwart  an  open 

bay ; 
Half  in  shadow,  half  in  moonshine  white,  the  anchored 

vessel  lay. 
A    single  seaman  kept  the  watch,  gazing  in  thoughtful 

mood ; 
Ko  marvel  in  the  sailor's  l^rain  the  vagrant  fancies  brood — 
Hushed  musings  seem  the  leaves,  the  stars,  in  that  fair 

solitude. 


GERALD  H.  SUPPLE.  533 

He  had  read  that  day  old  Homer's  tale  in  quaint  Chap- 
man's English  verse, 
And  half  aloud  the  sounding  rhymes  his  tongue  Avould 

still  rehearse ; 
With  Odysseus,  ancient  sea-king,  he  roams  those  times 

again, 
When  goddesses  and  ocean-fays  -would  converse  hold  with 

men. 
Anon  those  reveries  change.     Grand  was  the  tropic  scene 

that  day ; 

And  grand  the  midnight  now  to  view 
O'er  woodland  dark  and  ocean  blue. 
But  no  tropic  scene  he  looks  on  now,  his  heart  is  far 

away. 
No    tropic   scene    his   fancy    sees,   but   gentle   English 

June ; 
Bright   early  days  rise  like  some  sweet,   too   long  un- 

summoned  tune, 
Glad  youth  comes  back,  with  truant  pranks,  by  orchard, 

stream,  or  tarn ; 
From  the  hedge  sounds  the  bittern's  hollow  boom,  the 

fox  barks  in  the  fern  ; 
The  low  of  cows,  the  milkmaid's  song,  by  daisied  banks 

and  dells. 
The    hum  of   cheery  toil  above   the   scented   hay-fields 

swells ; 

"Forget  not  God — come  kneel  and  pray" — 
In  solemn  chimes,  melodious,  say 
The  distant  village  bells. 


He  hears   the  linnet  on   the    bough,  the   mavis  on  the 

thorn ; 
lie  sees  soar  from  the  meadow-grass  the  blithesome  bard 

of  morn. 


534  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  at  merry  eve  he's  chasing,  with   a  boyish  lover's 

pains, 
A  laughing  Atalanta  thro'  Somerset's  green  lanes  ! 
Aye,  war-scarred,  sea-worn  mariner — thou  man  of  storm 

and  strife, 
'Tis  passed  long  years,  that  hope  from  thee,  that  lit  thy 
wandering  life. 

No  more  when  fall  the  leaves,  she'll  sigh. 
To  breeze  that  idleth  lightly  by — 
"Ah  !  south  wind  blow,  and  bring  me  true 
Some  news  from  where  my  wild  bird  flew  ! " 

He  came  at  last,  but  flowers  will  fade — could  she  the 
fairest  stay  ? 

Sweet  with  her  blush  of  girlliood's  love — young,  blue- 
eyed  Margery  Gray  ! 

IV. 

The   seaman  slept — all  nature  sleeps ;  a  sacred  stillness 

there 
Is   on   the   wood — is    on   the   waves — is   in   the   silver 

air. 
The   sky   above — the   silent    sea — with    stars    were    all 

aglow ; 
There    shone    Orion    and   his    belt  —  Arcturus    and    his 

bow  ! 
The  seaman  slept — or  does  he  sleep  1 — What  chorus  greets 

him  now  1 — 
Wild  music  breaking  from  the  deep  around  the  vessel's 

bowl 
He  starts,  he  looks,  he  sees  rise  shadowy — can  he  only 

dream  1 
A  sovereign  form,  wrathful,  yet  beauteous — in  the  moon's 

cold  beam ! 


GERALD  H.  SUPPLE.  535 

"  [Mortal,  hath  fallen  my  star  in  the  hour 

Of    the    dread    eclipse,    that    thou    scornest    my 
power  1 

Herald  thus  soon  of  that  mystic  race 

Fated  to  reign  in  my  people's  place, 

Eringing    arts     of     might  —  working    wondrous 
spells 

Where  now  hut  the  simple  savage  dwells ; 

Before  whom  my  children  shall  pass  away, 

As  the  morntide  passes  before  the  day. 

The  time  is  not  yet,  why  dost  thou  come. 

The  bale  of  thy  presence  to  cast  o'er  my  home  ? 

Its  shadow  of  doom  is  on  air  and  waves — 
E'en  the  still  soft  gloom  of  my  deep  sea-caves, 
A  shudder  has  reached  ;  over  shore  and  bay. 
Bodeful  the  shivering  moonbeams  play  ! 
The  spirit  of  this  zone  am  I — 
Mine  are  the  isles  and  yon  mainlands  nigh ; 
And  roused  from  my  rest  by  the  wood-wraith's  sigh, 
And  the  sea  maid's  moan  on  the  coral  reef — 
Voices  never  till  now  foreboding  grief — 

Hither  I  fly- 
Here  at  the  gate  of  my  South  Sea  realm 
To  bid  thee  put  back  thy  fateful  helm  ! 
Not  yet  is  the  hour,  why  art  thou  here 
Presaging  dole,  and  scaith,  and  fear  1 " 


"  Not  yet  is  the  time — 

Woe-bringer,  go  back  to  thy  cloud-wrapped  clime  ! 

Meeter  for  thee  the  drear  Northern  sky. 

And  where  wintry  breakers  ceaseless  roar, 

And  strew  with  wrecks  a  dusky  shore ; 

Where  the  iceberg  rears  its  awful  form, 

Where  along  the  billoAvs  the  petrels  cry — 


536  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

For,  like  thee,  that  dark  bird  loves  the  storm  ! 

Thou  child  of  the  clime  of  the  vikings  wild — 

Who  wert  nursed  upon  the  tempest's  wing, 

A  boy  on  the  wind-beaten  mast  to  cling — 

Whose  quest  is  prey,  who  hailest  the  day 

When  gleam  the  red  swords  and  the  death-bolts  ring ! 

Thy  joy  is  with  restless  men  and  seas, 

What  dost  thou  in  scenes  as  soft  as  these  1 " 


VI. 

"  The  hour  is  not  yet,  but  the  doom  appears 

As  I  gaze  thro'  the  haze  of  long-distant  years. 

A  mighty  people  speaking  thy  tongue, 

Sea-borne  from  their  far,  dark  strands 

Shall  spread  abroad  over  all  these  lands 

Where  man  now  lives  as  when  time  was  young. 

I  see  their  stately  cities  rise 

Thro'  the  clouds  where  the  future's  horizon  lies ; 

Thro'  the  purple  mists  shrouding  river  and  plain, 

Where  the  white-foaming  bay  marks  the  hidden  main ; 

And  clearer  noAv — I  behold  more  clear 

Great  ships — sails  swelling  to  the  breeze, 

Their  keels  break  all  the  virgin  seas  ; 

Vast  white-winged  squadrons,  they  come  and  go 

Where  only  has  skimmed  the  light  canoe  ! 

Yes,  the  seats  and  the  paths  of  empire  veer, 

A  highway  of  nations  will  yet  be  here  ! 

As  Tyre  was  in  an  ancient  age  ; 

As  Venice  of  palaces,  strong  and  sage ; 

As  the  haughty  ports  of  your  native  shore 

Whose  fleets  override  the  waters'  rage. 

So  shall  the  pride  of  yon  cities  soar. 

From  the  frigid  Pole  to  the  torrid  Line, 

Their  sway  shall  stretch — their  standards  shine  ! 


GERALD  H.  SUPPLE.  537 

Pillared  temples — towering  domes — 

INIen,  bee-like,  busy  by  field- girt  homes ; 

The  wharf — the  mine — the  hurrying  crowds — ■ 

All — all  I  behold  thro'  yon  breaking  clouds ! 

A  people  of  marvellous  arts — in  sooth 

The  wisdom  of  Eld — the  strength  of  youth  ! 

Many  a  weird  and  wondrous  thing,  now  undreamt  of — 
that  will  spring 

Like  the  north  winds  from  black  broodings  and  white 
silence — they  will  bring  ! 

The  Fire-fiend  and  the  Water-sprite — 

Foes,  ever  foes,  since  primal  night — 

The  sorcerer  of  the  sea-borne  race 

"Will  bind  together,  and  from  their  strife 

Evoke  a  giant  power  to  life ; 

Will  couple  them  like  harnessed  steeds, 

Chained  to  his  chariot  and  wizard-needs, 

O'er  earth  and  ocean  his  will  to  trace ! 

E'en  the  lightning-elf  who  rives  the  oak 

And  barbs  the  tempest  shall  bow  to  that  yoke, 

And  be  its  messenger  to  run 

With  flashing  foot  in  the  round  of  the  sun, 

And  thro'  sullen  depths  of  the  rude  mid-sea — • 

Unclosed  to  his  course  by  that  gramarye  !  " 


Who  conquers  nature  can  conquer  man — 

A  law  since  Time's  long  course  began. 

AVith  the  hue  of  his  pale  skies  on  his  face 

The     Strong    One    will    come ;    and    the    dusk-browed 

race 
Who  coast  these  bright  isles  and  that  mainland  vast 
In  the  skiff  of  the  mat-sail,  and  cane-wood  mast, 


538  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Will  glide  away  in  shadowy  hosts 

Down  the  dim  waves  to  the  haven  of  ghosts, 

And  leave  but  their  names  on  the  hills  and  streams. 

With  their  sports  the  arch  of  the  woods  no  more 

Shall  ring.     No  more  like  glancing  dreams 

Shall  the  island  maidens  dance  at  eves 

When  the  sea-breeze  curls  the  palm-tree  leaves, 

Or  gaze  on  their  charms  in  the  sheen  of  the  brooks 

When  the  sunbeam's  entangled  in  forest  nooks. 

My  gentle  reign  will  then  be  o'er — 

The  happy  life  without  care  or  toil ; 

The  life  of  ease  on  a  bounteous  soil 

Where  the  hand  that  feeds  the  beast  and  bird 

As  freely  to  man  unlocks  its  hoard 

From  the  root-strewn  lawns — the  nut- crowned  trees — 

On  the  fruitful  earth — the  fishful  seas  ! 

This  simple  age  shall  flit  away, 

For  a  life  of  wider  wants  to  sway — 

But  in  thy  kindred's  empire  fair, 

Deem  not  it  is  thy  lot  to  share. 

Not  for  thee  the  gold  of  the  Austral  mine. 

For    thee    no    bright    home    where    the    South    Seas 

shine  ! 
Thou  hast  seen  in  the  far  Antilles'  glades 
How  the  native  before  the  stranger  fades. 
And  with  heart  of  greed  and  hand  of  crime, 
Would'st  thou  hasten  here  that  fatal  time  ? 
But  know  'tis  not  yet — thou  hast  come  too  soon 
In  the  rays  of  yon  omen-pointing  moon 
With  that  rudder  hewn  from  a  witch-wood  tree — 
My  malison  rests  on  thy  barque  and  thee  ! 
I  hear  the  angry  waters  roar 
That  will  rend  their  prey  by  an  Indian  shore. 
Tho'  o'er  some  sheltering  strand 
Thou  mayest  escape  the  wrath  of  the  sea, 


GERALD  H.  SUPPLE.  539 

Eold  wanderer,  thou  art  banned 

For  many  a  lawless  and  ruthless  deed, 

And  rapine  and  carnage  Avill  bring  their  meed. 

jMorgan — Mansvelt — L'Ollonnais  ! 

Dark  spirits  of  evil,  where  are  they  ? 
Too  long  by  sea  and  land 

In  their  steps  hast  thou  followed — for  gold — renown  ! 

But  Fate  shall  bear  thy  hard  heart  down. 

And  mar  the  schemes  thou  hast  planned. 

Proud  dreams  forsooth  !  the  world  will  sneer 

At  the  claim  of  the  darksome  buccaneer  ! 

The  baffled  hope  of  wealth  or  fame — 

A  homeless  life — half  pirate  name 

Are  for  thee — with,  foe  when  thou  needest  friend, 

In  a  weary  future  at  last  thou'lt  bend. 

And  unknown  and  unnoted  shall  be  thy  end  ! 


"Where    she    vanished,   grey  gathered   the    mists   like    a 

shroud — 
Then  to  darkness  of  doom  fell  the  shining  air ; 
The  stars  went  out  in  swirling  cloud 
Where  the  moonbeams  played  the  lightning's  flare, 
And  a  whirlpool  seized  on  the  sleeping  sea. 
That  yawned  in  black  gulfs  and  seethed,  uphurled 
As  if  from  the  depths  of  a  nether  world ; 
"While  hideously 
The  meteors  glare 
Showed  the  billows  bestridden  by  ghostly  shapes, 
Half  skeletons — half  mowing  apes — 
Mocking  phantoms,  that  beckoned  and  grinned — 
"  Come  be  with  us,  blithe  brother,  for  we  too  like  thee 

have  sinned  ! " 


540  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

VIII. 

"  What  ho  !  Dampier — ho  !  messmate  Will — wert  sleeping 

on  thy  watch  ! 
Zounds  !  had  the  skipper  come  on  deck,  a  coil  'twould  be 

to  catch ! 
Why  starest  thou? — what's  happ'd? — how  now? 
Hast   seen   the   Kraken? — heard   belike  some   cacique's 

ghostly  tunes  ? 
I  would  not  Jack  Swan  had  spied  thee  for  my  pouchful  of 

doubloons. 
I've  known  him  maroon  for  a  careless  watch — • 
Aye,  just  before  that  day 
We  fought   the    Guardo    Costa   there  in  old  Honduras 

Bay— 
When,  too,  we  careened  the  Betsey  down  by  the  Bahama 

Keys 
(A  craft  that  has  to  cut  a  feather  on  a  ten-knot  breeze  ! 
Ah,  main-sheet  free,  a  saucy  thing  as  ever  tripped  the 

seas  !) — 
Art  dumb  ?     Art  dazed  ?     I  tell  thee.  Will,  I  do  not  like 

thy  looks  : 
'Twill  moor  thee  fast  in  Bedlam  yet,  this  plaguey  trick  of 

books ! 
But  rouse  thee — to  the  galley  come,  we'll  brew  a  can  of 

flip; 

Then  go  below  and  turn  in — I'll  stay  and  mind  the  ship." 


MARGARET  THOMAS.  541 


MAEGARET  THOMAS. 

[The  well-known  painter  and  sculptor,  the  first  Australian-taught 
artist,  was  born  in  Croydon,  Surrey,  and  brought  out  to  Aus- 
tralia in  infancy.  Studied  sculpture  under  Charles  Summers, 
and  Went  to  England  to  complete  her  studies  in  1867.  After 
a  residence  of  three  years  in  Rome,  she  obtained  a  studentsliip 
in  the  Royal  Academj',  London,  and  a  first  silver  medal  there- 
in 1872.  Began  painting  portraits,  and  exhibited  at  the 
Academy  Exhibitions — one  year  having  six  pictures  hung. 
Her  best-known  work  is  a  marble  bust  of  Fielding  in  the 
Shire  Hall,  Taunton,  where  are  three  other  works  from  her 
chiseL  Miss  Thomas  has  for  many  years  been  contributing 
poems  to  periodicals.  A  volume  of  her  poetry  is  in  course  of 
preparation.  Was  at  one  time  a  frequent  contributor  to  the 
Australasian.] 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

ALICE    RICHMAN, 

Died  at  Poonah,  January  14th,  18S2. 

Out  of  life's  dusty  tomb-o'ersliadowed  way, 
Out  of  its  struggling  anxious  crowd  I  turn, 

One  moment,  Alice,  that  I  too  may  lay 
A  fading  flow'r  upon  tliy  distant  urn. 

Silent  amid  the  throng  of  those  who  weep, 
I  come,  a  shadow  pale  with  grief  represt, 

"Where  now  thou  sleepest  calmly  thy  last  sleep, 
Closing  unwearied  eyes  in  unwished  rest. 

For  now,  O  Alice,  if  we  seek  thy  face, 

"We  look  on  darkness ;  if  Ave  call  thy  name, 

Nothing  but  solemn  silence  thro'  far  space. 
Darkness  and  silence  evermore  the  same. 


512  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  there  is  now  one  friendship  less  on  earth, 
In  heaven  another  angel's  face  ;  and  thus 

"We  pass  through  life  'mid  evergrowing  dearth, 
Of  all  like  thee,  most  fair,  most  dear  to  us. 

But  not  so  thou,  gone  before  thou  could'st  know, 
The  suff'ring  and  the  mock'ry  'tis  to  live ; 

Thy  few  fair  years  undimmed  for  thee  by  woe, 
Years  such  as  life  to  youth  alone  will  give.  • 

We  will  remember  thee  a  ray  of  light. 
Upon  the  world's  dark,  ever-stormy  sea. 

Which  made  the  heaving  waves  one  moment  bright, 
Then  faded  into  immortality. 


APOLOGY  FOR  AN  IN  MEMORIAM  POEM. 

Stranger  !  who  asks  a  song  for  thee 
Now  thou  art  laid  amid  the  dead  ? 

She  who  in  all  thy  youth  and  strengtli 
Bent  on  thy  breast  her  golden  head  1, 

And  with  sweet  words  of  jest  and  love. 
Lured  thee  to  festive  hall  and  dance, 

And  shared  with  thee  the  glowing  joys 
Which  in  youth's  brightest  days  entrance  1 

Ah,  no  !  but  she  who  in  the  years 

Of  infancy  thy  footsteps  led  ; 
And  through  long  nights  of  childish  pain, 

Watched  ever  sleepless  o'er  thy  head  : — 


MARGARET  THOMAS.  543 

"Who,  when  that  other  passed  away 
Fickle,  to  fresher  fields  and  flowers, 

Came  faithful  round  thy  bed  of  death, 
And  soothed  with  love  thy  parting  hours. 

Mother !  for  such  a  love  as  thine, 

The  poet  vainly  seeks  a  song ; 
Earth's  music  is  unworthy  thee, 

To  autrel  choirs  such  themes  belon;?. 


ABSENT  FRIENDS. 

To  absent  friends  I  drain  this  glass ! 
First,  those  who  sleep  beneath  the  grass 
And  taste  the  peace  death  only  lends 
And  slumber  quiet — Absent  Friends  1 

And  next  I  pour  rich  wine  to  those 
Who  dwell  beyond  where  ocean  flows ; 
In  hopeless  toil  which  never  ends, 
Alone,  uncared-for — Absent  Friends  ! 

I  drain  the  ruby  wine  to  all 

Who  weep  and  toil  on  earth's  dark  ball ! 

To  all  whom  poverty  attends  ! 

Whom  love  cheers  never  ! — Absent  Friends  ! 


544  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


SONNET. 


Stay  thou  on  foreign  shores,  my  love,  my  love. 

And  drink  the  perfumed  breezes  of  tJie  south  ; 
Catch  for  thine  eyes  the  sun's  bright  beams  above. 

And  place  its  roses  on  thy  cheeks  and  mouth. 
Lie  thou  unheeding  by  the  summer  sea, 

Washing  the  silver  sand  beneath  thy  feet, 
And  let  its  echoing  wavelets  whisper  thee 

Of  all  thy  soul  believes  most  fair  and  sweet. 
Have  not  one  dream  of  care ;  and  when  the  night 

Hangs  her  bright  lamplets  in  the  ebon  dome 
Remember  those  who  love  thee  as  the  light, 

And  wait  to  welcome  thy  dear  presence  home. 
So  gather  health  and  joy;  then  come  to  me 
Safe  and  unchanged  across  the  friendly  sea. 


IDLENESS. 

O  MISERY  of  idleness  and  rest  ! 

0  dreadful  agony  of  dull  repose ! 
He  knoweth  pain  and  weariness  the  best 

"Who  best  your  fruit  of  venomed  ashes  knows  ! 
O  ye  who  labour  when  the  mornings  break, 

Till  night's  pale  stars  keep  vigils  in  the  sky. 
Be  thankful  tho'  your  limbs  with  work  grow  weak. 

Although  with  toil  oppressed  ye  almost  die — 
Glad  that  ye  have  a  purpose  in  the  land. 

Glad  that  ye  shall  not  pass  unmissed  from  hence, 
Glad  that  the  labour  of  your  strong  right  hand 

Shall  for  your  toils  win  noble  recompense. 
Let  none  so  bitterly  deplore  his  birth 
As  he  who  finds  no  labour  on  the  earth. 


MARGARET  THOMAS.  545 

GRIEF. 

Grief  is  not  kind  enough  to  kill.     We  pour 

Our  blood  and  tears  before  its  lash,  and  sigh 
That  we  can  bear  the  crimson  stripes  no  more. 

But  tho'  we  pray  for  death  we  do  not  die, 
And  as  blows  follow  on  the  quivering  flesh 

We  still  live  on,  for  Time's  officious  skill 
Heals  the  red  wounds :  yet  while  the  scar  is  fresli 

Another  blow  succeeds,  but  does  not  kill 
0  were  the  first  blow  death  our  fates  were  blest ! 

It  is  not  thus,  and  we  must  bear — still  bear 
Till  the  worn  spirit  flies  into  its  rest 

At  last,  and  leaves  the  frame  to  moulder  here. 
Silence  and  patience  !  life  will  pass  away 
As  surely  as  the  night  succeeds  to-day. 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 

Eapt,  awe-inspired,  as  one  who  sudden  sees 
The  sable  Heavens  cleft  with  sAvord-like  fire. 
The  Artist  gazed  upon  the  Altarpiece. 
As  when  He  took  our  fragile  human  form 
The  Christ  was  pictured  there.     His  limpid  eyes 
Looked  with  the  anguish  which  is  born  of  love, 
And  lit  His  sorrow-shadowed  lineaments. 
His  placid  forehead  beamed  with  noblest  thought, 
Soft  pity  lingered  round  the  gentle  lips. 
And  who  could  blame  the  ardent  soul  which  bowed 
Even  to  worship  such  a  god-like  face. 
Pictured  by  living  genius  such  as  this  1 
Awaking  as  it  were  from  some  deep  trance 
The  Artist  cried  aloud,  "  "Where  is  the  Prior  1 

2   M 


546  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Speak,  holy  Father  !  give  his  glorious  name 

To  fame  eternal  who  has  painted  this  !  " 

The  Prior  was  a  bent  and  grey-haired  man 

Worn  with  long  fasting,  prayer,  and  vigilance ; 

And  yet  his  lustrous  eyes  in  caverns  set 

Beneath  his  brows  like  planets  in  dark  night 

Gleamed  restlessly  with  radiance  not  of  earth. 

In  hollow  accents  slowly  he  replied, 

"  Kg  longer  to  this  vain  and  sinful  world 

The  author  of  our  Altarpiece  belongs." 

"  Dead  !  "  cried  the  Artist,  "  dead  !  unknown  to  ine, 

His  glorious  name  before  whose  fame  my  own 

Would  fade  !  yet  I  am  Rubens  !  "     Suddenly 

O'er  the  pale  face  of  that  calm  silent  man 

Stole  a  slight  flush,  as  when  the  first  faint  beam 

Of  morning  creeps  upon  the  cold  grey  sky. 

'Twas  but  a  moment.     Then  he  crossed  his  arms, 

And  gazing  sadly  downward  to  the  earth 

Echoed  the  words,  "  He  is  not  of  this  world  ! " 

"  His  name,  my  Father  !  oh,  pronounce  his  name  ! 

Tell  me  tliat  I  may  let  the  wide  world  know 

How  great  a  glory  once  illumined  it, 

And  point  a  pathway  for  its  pilgrim  feet ! 

Ah  !  let  me  render  honour  unto  him, 

The'  highest  honour  falls  below  his  meed. 

Even  tho'  cruel  death  has  stayed  for  ever 

The  skilful  hand,  sealed  the  once-piercing  eyes, 

And  loosed  the  Heaven-lent  spirit  to  its  home, 

His  name  must  live  while  this  sad  earth  endures. 

And  if  perchance  all  traces  of  my  work 

Fade  like  the  visions  of  a  sleep-sealed  night, 

The  name  of  Rubens  linked  with  his  may  claim 

At  least  the  gratitude  of  future  years." 

Paler  the  Prior  grew  ;  his  feeble  limbs 
Trembled ;  and  down  his  seared  and  hollow  cheeks 


MARGARET  THOMAS.  547 

The  cold  drops  thickly  ran  :  his  bloodless  lips, 
Locked  fast  as  when  convulsion  strains  the  form, 
Uttered  no  sound.     As  at  the  fatal  stake 
The  iron-bound  martyr  stands  in  fervent  pray'r 
"When  leaping  flames,  and  smoke-wreaths,  serpent  like 
Coil  round  his  feet,  the  pallid  Prior  stood. 

The  impetuous  Artist  cried  again  *'  His  name  !  " 
As  watch  the  eager  eyes,  as  strain  the  ears 
Of  those  who  watch  the  death  of  the  beloved 
For  earth's  last  looks  and  words,  so  Rubei«  gazed. 

But  thro'  those  cold  sealed  lips  no  murmur  ran. 
"  His  name,  my  Father  !  oh,  the  Artist's  name  !  " 

Then  spoke  the  monk  in  lower  accents  yet. 
"  My  brother,  thou  hast  understood  me  not. 
I  said  not  that  the  Artist  yet  was  dead. 
He  lives  ! "     "I  thank  Thee,  God,  Avho  grantest  me 
To  pay  in  part  the  debt  which  mankind  owes  ! 
Tell  me  his  name  !  the  place  of  his  abode  ! " 

As  ermine  when  contrasted  with  the  snow 
Grows  dark,  so  the  pale  ]\Ionk  grew  paler. 
He  raised  his  eyeballs  starting  from  their  spheres, 
"  Brother,  the  Artist  has  renounced  the  Avorld 
And  all  its  vanity.     He  is  a  Monk  !  " 
"  A  Monk  !  "  cried  Rubens,  "  Father,  he  a  Monk  ! 
Tell  me  the  cloister  where  he  hides  away 
Such  genius  as  the  Avorld  has  never  known. 
God  gave  that  man  a  rich  and  holy  gift 
With  which  to  go  among  his  fellow-men, 
Scattering  its  lessons  and  its  wealth  on  all. 
His  is  the  highest  destiny  ordained 
To  fall'n  humanity.      Sliall  he  then  refuse 
The  work  sublime?     Be  traitor  to  his  God? 
Tell  me  that  cloister.     I  will  go  to  him 
And  tell  him  of  the  everlasting  fame 
Awaiting  him ;  and  of  the  noble  life 


5^8  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

His  genius  marks  him  out  and  seals  him  for. 
And  if  misled  by  some  religious  zeal 
(Religious  falsely  called)  he  shall  refuse, 
The  Pope  who  loves  me  will  obtain  my  prayer 
Absolving  him  from  all  his  monkish  vows. 
Not  for  a  genius  matchless  as  is  his 
The  bell,  the  missal,  and  the  cloister  cell, 
He  shall  retake  the  brushes  used  by  him 
As  none  on  earth  beside  has  ever  used. 

Firmly  with  hollow  voice  the  Monk  replied — 
"  I  will  not  give  his  name,  nor  tell  the  fane 
In  whose  calm  halloAved  peace  he  sought  and  found 
Eest  from  the  troubles  of  this  weary  world." 
'*  The  Pope  will  see  to  it !     0  Father,  hear  ! 
You  all  are  monks  and  many  such  as  ye 
Can  mutter  chants  and  prayers.     God  has  given 
But  one  such  genius  to  ilhune  the  world. 
Should  the  bright  sun  rest  ever  'neath  a  cloud  1 
And  should  the  perfumed  flowers  of  radiant  spring 
Hide  always  in  the  cold  sepulchral  earth 
Or  should  the  sable  veil  of  silent  night 
Be  to  the  stars  a  hiding-place  for  ever  1 
K"o,  Father,  no  !     Tell  me  at  last  his  name. 
Let  him  resume  once  more  his  God-sent  work." 
*'  Listen,"  replied  the  Monk,  "  in  God's  high  name  ! 
Thinkest  thou  then,  my  brother,  that  this  man. 
Before  he  left  the  world,  renouncing  thus 
Honour  and  riches,  ay,  and  all  that  seems 
Most  dear,  most  precious  to  the  soul  of  man, 
Thought  not  on  his  most  bitter  sacrifice'? 
Spent  no  long  hours  of  unsoothed  agony 
In  midnight  prayer  before  Almighty  God 
In  strife  unutterable  1     Thinkest  thou 
He  bled  not  'neath  the  lash  of  galling  wrong  ? 
He  felt  not  all  the  pangs  of  cold  deceit  ■? 


MARGARET  THOMAS.  549 

lie  wept  not  wounded  lives  to  bitter  tears  1 

Felt  not  the  sting  of  disappointed  hope  1 

Knew  not  the  grovelling  vice  and  vanity, 

The  heartless  mockery,  the  joyless  toil 

Of  all  that  makes  tlie  sum  of  human  life? 

My  brother,  yes  !     Ah,  if  thou  lovest  him 

Leave  him  the  peace  bought  with  his  heart's  best  blood  — 

Leave  him  to  die  in  that  quiet  sheltered  spot 

Where  he  has  found  a  refuge  from  the  world ; — 

Where  shadow  of  ambition  never  falls — 

Nor  venomed  shafts  of  envy  penetrate — 

Nor  sounds  of  earth's  loud  surge  offend  his  ear, — 

Leave  him,  beseech  thee,  his  last  resting-place  ! 

And  should'st  thou  know  his  name  he  would  reject, 

Triumphant  as  before,  your  flattering  hopes — 

Spurn  yet  again  the  allurements  of  tlie  world, 

And  die  alone  in  peace  before  his  God  ! " 

Eubens  replied,  "  He  knows  not  what  he  does, 
For  he  renounces  Immortality  !  " 
Making  with  his  attenuated  hand 
The  cross's  sign,  the  pale  Monk  sighing  said : 
"In  awful  presence  of  Eternity 
All  earthly  immortality  is  vain  ! 
Tempt  me  no  more  !  the  bell  for  prayers  resound. 
My  brother,  now  farewell  for  evermore." 

Silent  and  thoughtful  Rubens  went  his  way. 
But  that  stern  Monk  entering  his  dismal  cell 
Prayed  as  the  death-struck  sinner  only  prays 
When  hope  is  past.     Hour  after  hour  he  prayed 
And  tottered  to  and  fro  as  in  the  storm 
The  sapling  sways.     Then  trembling  he  arose 
And  gathered  easel,  palette,  colours,  all 
The  instruments  of  art.     He  gazed  on  them 
As  looks  a  mother  on  the  pale  cold  corpse 
Of  her  one  child,  and  with  an  effort  such 


550  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

As  nerves  despair  in  need's  oppressive  hour 
He  hurled  them  from  the  window  of  his  cell 
Into  the  wide  and  rushing  tide  beneath. 
He  saw  them  mingle  in  the  roaring  flood, 
Borne  swiftly  even  from  his  tearless  eyes. 
And  as  the  shipwrecked  mariner  beholds 
His  fragile  raft  swept  plank  by  plank  away 
So  gazed  the  Monk.     Then  kneeling  down  again 
He  prayed  the  prayer  of  those  who  hope  no  more. 


JAMES  THOMAS. 

[A  native  of  New  South  Wales,  born  in  iS6l,  educated  at  "the 
Premier  School  of  Australia,"  the  old  ''King's  School," 
Parramatta,  founded  fifty  years  ago.  Has  published  no  volume, 
though  he  has  v^ritten  many  fine  poems.] 

TO  A  SILVER-EYE. 

Thou  merry  little  silver-eye  ! 

In  yonder  trailing  vine, 
I,  passing  by  this  morning,  spied 

That  ivy-built  nest  of  thine. 
O'erhung  with  starry  virgin-bower, 

As  white  as  ocean  foam, 
A  fairy  might  have  hidden  there, 

Kor  wished  a  lovelier  home. 

Of  twigs  and  softest  fibres  formed, 

Bedecked  with  woodland  moss, 
In  all  my  walks  a  fairer  thing 

I  never  came  across  ; 
The  dewy  leaves  I  pushed  aside, 

And  bowed  the  branches  frail. 
And,  glancing  in  the  casket,  saw 

Three  tiny  emeralds  pale. 


JAMES  THOMAS. 

O  happy  bird  !  with  such  a  home, 

Here  in  the  Eush  so  still : 
Companion  of  the  butterflies, 

Rocked  at  the  zephyrs  will — 
How  sweetly  these  glad  vernal  days 

For  you  the  moments  fly, 
Then  gales  blow  soft,  and  earth  is  green, 

And  deeply  blue  the  sky. 

"When  over  russet  plains  and  hills 

Fierce  January  glows. 
Thou  seekest  cool  and  shady  bowers 

Among  our  vineyard  rows  ; 
And  though  the  purple  clustering  grape 

Thou  stab'st  with  slender  bill, 
We  grudge  thee  not  the  luscious  feast, 

Thou  art  welcome  to  thy  lill. 

"Who  hath  not  seen  thy  darling  form, 

Thy  glancing  eye  so  gay. 
Thy  wings  and  crest  of  faintest  green, 

Thy  vest  of  ashen  grey  ? 
No.  golden  melody  hast  thou 

To  charm  the  listening  ear, 
Ko  brilliant  plumage — yet  wee  bird. 

To  all  thou'rt  known  and  dear. 


MAY  O'  THE  SOUTH* 

Lovely,  laughing  May  is  here  ! 
May  o'  the  South  with  ])lue  eyes  clear, 
Winsome  smile,  and  balmy  breath, 
Round  her  brows  a  blooming  wreath 

*  The  Australian  winter  begins  in  June. 


552  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Of  epacris  bells,  entwined 
With  mimosa,  she  doth  bind. 
Wouldst  thou  view  her  graces  rare  ? 
To  the  lonesome  Bush  repair. 

Slumbering  in  the  ferny  dells, 
Easking  on  the  sunny  fells, 
Tripping  in  her  woodland  trim, 
By  some  lone  creek's  myrtled  brim. 
Or  beside  the  furrowed  rows, 
Watching  while  the  farmer  sows — 
Tlius  this  merry  careless  May 
Whiles  the  happy  hours  away. 

Children  at  her  rustic  shrine 

Love  their  garlands  gay  to  twine ; 

Many  a  steep  they  ramble  o'er, 

Many  a  flowery  dale  explore  ; 

Till  the  quickly-fading  gloaming 

Calls  them  homeward  from  their  roaming, 

Wearied  with  their  pleasant  toil, 

Burdened  with  their  sylvan  spoil. 

Fields  are  green  and  fair  to  see  j 
Streamlets  gurgle  tunefully ; 
Merrily  the  wagtail  now 
Chatters  on  the  ti-tree  bough  ; 
While  the  crested  coachman  bird 
Midst  the  underwood  is  heard. 
One  could  dream  the  sweet  spring-time 
Was  anear — not  winter's  rime. 

Gone  are  the  days  of  golden  boon  ; 
Frosts  and  chilling  winds  will  soon 
Change  to  russet  all  the  green ; 
Beauteous  May  just  stands  between — • 


JAMES  THOMAS.  553 

And  she  singeth  soft  and  low 
"  Pleasant  was  the  summer's  glow, 
Joys  to  winter  too  belong," 
Come  and  hearken  to  her  song  ! 


ON  REVISITING  THE  KING'S  SCHOOL, 
PARRAMATTA. 

Beneath  thy  porch  of  stone  once  more^ 

Old  school,  I  stand  and  fondly  gaze 
On  scenes  that  hack  to  memory  bring 

These  bright-hued,  joyous,  bygone  days 
When  wc  the  rolling  football  chased 

Across  these  grounds  with  ringing  cheers, 
Or  manned  the  cricket-field — how  swift 

Since  then  have  sped  the  changeful  years. 

But  these  to  me  seem  all  unchanged — 

The  one-arched  bridge  ;  the  quiet  town  ; 
The  pleasant  park,  whose  broad  oaks  now 

In  June's  cold  winds  are  sere  and  brown  ; 
The  placid  river  winding  by  ; 

The  well-known  isle,  upon  its  breast 
The  bulrushes  that  grace  the  stream, 

And  hide  the  warbling  redbreast's  nest. 

And  then  o'er  orange  orchards  fair. 

And  paddocks  green,  my  fancy  strays 
To  old  Toongabbies'  sylvan  scenes, 

"Where  oft  on  Saturdays 
We  lit  our  camp-fires,  bushman-like, 

And  built  our  gunyahs  in  the  wood ; 
Or  rambling,  sought  the  wild-birds'  nest 

Or  sported  in  the  limj)id  fiood. 


554  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Ah  rae  !  the  wide  world  we  may  roam, 

And  pleasure  seek  in  many  a  clime — 
Xoiight  can  the  magic  charm  restore, 

That  hung  about  our  schoolboy  time. 
T>ut  though  in  youth's  sweet  vale  ye  lie, 

Blest  days  your  memory  still  doth  shed 
A  cheery  radiance  round  my  path, 

As  up  life's  mountain  slopes  I  tread. 

An  honoured  name,  old  school,  is  thine, 

Australia  owns  thy  sons  with  pride, 
Who  from  these  walls  have  gone  to  spread 

Her  commerce,  or  her  councils  guide, 
Or  win  her  pastures  from  the  wild ; 

And  from  thee  yet,  with  patriot  fire 
And  wisdom  filled,  will  statesmen  spring ; 

And  bards  to  wake  their  country's  lyre. 

Dear  spot,  my  heart  is  bound  to  thee 

By  many  a  firm  and  tender  tie 
Time  cannot  loosen  ;  here  were  formed 

Sweet  friendships  that  will  never  die ; 
Here  knowledge  first  her  varied  stores 

Displayed  to  charm  our  thoughtless  youth ; 
And  here  we  learnt  to  love  the  paths 

Of  honour,  manliness,  and  truth. 


MRS.  ELIZA.  T.  TIIOREOWGOOD. 

WHAT  HAVE  THE  YEARS  BROUGHT? 

What  have  the  years  brought  1     Empty  places 
Filled  with  the  ghosts  of  long  ago ; 

Hopes  dispelled  and  vanished  faces. 
Passions  fierce  whose  fires  burned  low ; 


JOHN  OWEN  TUCKER.  5: 

Many  fair  projects  that  end  in  nought 

The  years  have  brought,  the  years  have  brought. 


Shadows  of  scenes  and  dreams  of  youth, 

Friends  that  were  false,  smiles  that  were  bright, 

Ashes  of  love,  and  sparks  of  tlie  truth, 
Fading  away  as  the  day  into  night ; 

Many  denials  of  that  we  sought 

The  years  have  brought,  the  years  have  brought. 


JOHN  OWEX  TUCKER 

[Has  published  a  volume  entitled  The  Mute,  a  Poem  of  Victoria,  and 
other  Poems,  dedicated  to  Mr.  James  Smith,  the  well-known 
author  and  journalist  of  Melbourne,  The  poems  quoted  are 
from  this  volume.] 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

GUSTAVUS  VAUGHAN  BROOKE. 

(The  actor  who  perished  in  the  wreck  of  the  London  in  the 
P.ay  of  Biscay,  on  his  way  to  Australia.  His  last  words  addressed 
to  those  in  the  boats  were  "  Give  my  kind  farewell  to  the  people  of 
Melbourne.") 

There  breathed  a  strain  of  beauty  through  his  soul 

From  nature  caught : 
A  dazzling  night-star  of  the  mind — 'twould  roll 

And  chain  the  thought. 
He  was  of  those  who  followed  up  a  deed 

Of  high  intent ; 
Or  failing  so,  could  feel  the  bosom  bleed, 

So  well  he  meant. 


556  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Prevention's  bar  that  ever  chokes  the  way 

Of  humble  birth  * 
Was  broke,  and  genius  mounted  to  the  fray- 
In  conscious  worth ; 
And  grew  a  light  that  fired  a  nation's  youth 

To  emulate 
As  friend  or  brother  in  the  paths  of  truth 

Or  actor's  state. 
In  marble  characters  shall  live  thy  name — 

A  people's  pride — 
Not  so  much  for  the  thrilling  player's  fame 

As  how  he  died. 
A  noble  vessel  battling. with  the  foam 

Rode  merrily, 
The  morrow  clasped  within  its  hidden  tomb 

Dark  destiny, 
And  spirits  high  looked  to  the  Jordan  shore 

Thro'  Hope's  bright  eye, 
^Vhen  Fate  spoke  in  the  tempest's  fiercest  roar 

Tliat  shook  the  sky. 
And  the  echo  rose  from  the  swelling  deep 

With  anger  black, 
As  its  cataracts  rushed  with  awful  sweep 

On  the  doomed  ship's  track. 
They  threw  despair  from  each  charging  crest 

Along  the  deck. 
Soon  the  maddening  shriek  proclaims  the  rest, 

She  sinks,  a  wreck. 
Unwearied  effort  made  its  wild  essay 

For  dearest  life, 


*  This  is  a  mistake — Brooke  was  a  man  of  good  Anglo-Irish 
family  ;  born  in  Dublin  iSi8,  and  originally  educated  for  the  Bar. 
His  marble  bust  adorns  the  Hall  of  the  sulendid  Public  Library  of 
Melbourne. 


JOHN  OWEN  TUCKER.  557 

But  few  that  strive  escape  from  death  to  say 

How  fared  the  strife. 
Tliey  tell  how,  erect  in  prayerful  mood, 

With  soul  serene. 
The  mighty  charmer  of  the  passions  stood 

In  his  last  scene. 
How  his  farewell  words  o'er  his  boundless  grave 

Were  cherished  far — 
To  tell  the  stage  how  the  "  drop  "  of  the  wave 

Eolled  o'er  its  star. 


TO  SIR   WILLI  A  M  FOSTER  STA  WELL. 

THEN    CHIEF    JUSTICE  ;    NOW    LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR 
OF    VICTORIA. 

Forgive  the  verse  which  strives  awhile  to  draw 
Tliy  mind  aside  from  avenues  of  law, 
Whose  maze  demands  each  studious  mote  of  time 
To  shield  the  guiltless  or  to  punish  crime ; 
Not  that  upon  thy  generous  worth  I  try 
To  thrust  my  couplets  with  a  pleading  eye, 
Or  mean-born  utterance,  craving  favoui's  rod — 
Xo  !  free  as  air — no  master  but  my  God. 
Yet  thankful  still  to  Him  who  watched  my  good, 
And  turned  my  steps  half  fearful  to  intrude 
On  thy  stern  presence  in  my  simple  mood. 
Oh  !  wisdom's  kindness  hath  a  magic  power 
I  never  knew  till  that  one  joyous  hour  ! 
Though  oft  before  across  my  spirits  creep 
I've  felt  its  want  and  woman-like  would  weep. 
The  bitter  pang  I  could  not  help  but  own 
That  left  me  thus  untutored  and  alone  : 


558  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

A  virgin  soil  that  only  asked  the  care 

And  culture  of  the  skilful  hand  to  bear. 

Oft  when  along  Australian  paths  I've  been 

On  mountain's  tops,  in  sweet  vale's  shady  scene, 

When  Nature  woke  and  all  her  rich  perfume 

Breathed  softly  through  the  immensity  of  room, 

And  every  leaf  upon  her  bosom  fair 

Has  gently  trembled  while  I  nestled  there — 

My  wild  desires  lived  but  to  save  a  shore 

Spurned  by  the  world,  yet  loved  by  me  the  more, 

And  bade  me  strive  with  all  a  minstrel's  fire 

To  strike  in  song  my  rude  unpolished  lyre, 

And  lift  my  thoughts  linked  with  the  sweet  essay 

To  something  higher  than  earth's  common  clay. 

The  voice  of  learning  came — and  thine  was  ta'en, 

The  first  that  had  not  learned  to  mock  my  strain, 

No  glance  deriding  did  thy  soul  betray. 

For  justice  marked  what  truth  preferred  to  say — ■ 

That  truth  which  rose,  despite  a  people's  grudge. 

To  mould  a  statesman,  orator,  and  judge — 

'Tis  godlike  to  be  generously  wise — 

The  truly  noble  knows  not  to  despise. 

Then  let  me  feel  the  worst  of  bitter  scorn 
From  narrow  minds  to  meanest  actions  born ; 
So  I  beneath  the  noble  voice  may  soar 
To  win  a  name  to  grace  my  native  shore — 
But  such  a  name  as  only  can  belong 
To  those  who  struggle  in  the  path  of  song. 
That  when  I  die  my  latest  thinkings  can 
Claim  sweet  acquaintance  with  a  righteous  man 
Whose  soul  could  still  to  noblest  promptings  bend 
Yet  be  the  judge  with  honour  o'er  the  friend. 


CHARLES  UMBERS.  55g 

CIIAELES  UMBERS. 

[Of  the  Telegraph  Department,  Dunedin,  New  Zealand,  Son  of  an 
officer  iu  the  Erglish  army — a  frequent  contributor  to  the  New 
Zealand  journals.] 

THE  FIREMAN. 

Hark,  'tis  the  clang  of  the  bell ! 

And  tlie  fireman  springs  to  his  feet 
(Like  a  faithful  hound  at  his  master's  word) 
At  the  very  second  is  the  bell  heard, 

In  jacket  and  belt  complete. 

And  away,  like  the  rush  of  the  wind, 

"With  ladder  and  rope  and  reel, 
']\rid  the  shriek  of  the  whistle  and  hurrying  beat 
Of  sparkling  hoofs  through  the  ruddy  street, 

And  the  ring  of  brass  and  steel. 

Up,  now,  through  the  raging  fire 

He  clambers  with  panting  breath — 
Through  the  shifting  smoke  and  the  furnace  glow, 
And  falters  his  foot  for  a  moment  1 — ho  ! 

W^iat  terror  has  he  of  death  1 

Flashes  the  axe  in  liis  hand, 

And  his  blows  fall  fast  and  true ; 
In  a  second  the  shattered  wall  gives  way, 
And  quick  as  a  tiger  after  his  prey 

With  a  bound  he  dashes  through. 

And  here  and  there,  with  drooping  forms. 

From  the  tottering  rooms  he  flies ; 
But  if  in  vain  is  a  last  retreat, 
And  lie  comes  no  more  from  the  ruthless  heat, 

Like  a  fireman  here  he  dies. 


56o  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

And  down  in  the  clamouring  crowd 
A  wife  may  shriek  at  his  doom, 
As  he  falls  mid  the  horrid  crackle  and  glare, 
And  the  gasping  cries  of  the  victims  there 
Tliat  share  his  fiery  tomb. 

Fireman,  give  me  your  hand  ! 

You  with  the  iron  breast. 
With  the  iron  arm  and  the  sinews  of  steel, 
And  the  big  bold  heart  the  world  shall  feel. 

Its  manliest  heart  and  best ! 

For  out  of  the  deeds  of  men, 

The  valour  of  human  strife, 
"Where  is  the  hand  with  a  prouder  claim 
To  the  grasp  of  a  king,  and  the  kiss  of  fame. 

Than  the  hand  that  saves  a  life  ! 


THE  MARRIAGE  BELLS  OF  A  VA LEIGH. 


EiNG  on  for  ever, 
Ye  marriage  bells  that  break  my  reverie  ! 
Sweet  bells  of  Avaleigh, 

Eing  on  for  ever  ! 

Ye  tell  again  the  lovers'  simple  story 

Of  heart  that  cleaves  to  heart,  whate'er  betide- 
Before  the  good  old  parson,  bent  and  hoary, 
I  see  them  side  by  side. 

The  solemn  words,  scarce  audible,  are  spoken. 

And  softly  on  her  trembling  finger  now 
The  golden  circlet  slips — the  sacred  token 
That  seals  their  sacred  vow. 


CHARLES  UMBERS.  561 

"Sweet  love!  sweut  wife!"  he  wlii.'jpers  as  they're  leaving, 

Wliile  on  her  wreathed  brow  he  imprints  a  kiss  ; 
And  she,  with  faltering  lips  and  bosom  heaving, 
Can  only  look  her  bliss. 

Go,  happy  bride,  fair  as  your  wedding  flowers  ! 

Go,  happy  bridegroom — happy  ever  be 
To  your  young  hearts  tlie  swiftly  fleeting  hours — 
To  weep  is  but  for  me  ! 

Ring  on  for  ever, 
Ye  marriage  bells  !  how  joyous  and  how  free  ! 
Sweet  bells  of  Avaleigh, 

Ring  on  for  ever  ! 

IL 

Ring  on  for  ever. 
Ye  marriage  bells  that  ne'er  shall  ring  for  me ! 
Sweet  bells  of  Avaleigh, 

Ring  on  for  ever  ! 

There  was  a  day  (that  oft  sweet  thought  has  given) 
For  which  I  longed  to  clasp  her  as  my  bride ; 

But  when  the  morning  dawned  my  breast  was  riveu  — 
My  lovely  flow'r  had  died  ! 

She  sleeps  within  her  favonrite  forest  bower, — 
Sweet  bower  of  love  ! — our  dear  old  trysting-place, 

"Where,  clasping  her  soft  hand,  from  hour  to  hour, 
I  watched  her  pensive  face. 

'Twas  there,  when  autumn's  leafy  wealth  was  falling, 
Llithe  as  a  bird,  her  guileless  heart  she  gave 

Ah  !  little  knew  my  mind  the  thought  appalling — 
That  she  sat  by  her  grave  ! 

Sleep,  darling,  sleep  !  my  lonely  life  is  fleeting — 
Drear  as  the  tomb,  for  joy  has  fled  with  you  — 

2  N 


562  A  USTRA  LI  A  N  POE  TS. 

Drear  till  my  drooping  heart  has  stilled  its  beating, 
And  lies  beneath  the  dew. 

King  on  for  ever, 
Ye  marriage  bells  that  ne'er  shall  ring  for  nie 
Sweet  bells  of  Avaleigh, 

King  on  for  ever  ! 


GORDON'S  DEATH. 

"  So  good,  so  jxist,  so  great. 
That  at  his  birth  the  Heavenly  Council  paused, 
And  then  at  last  cried  out — '  This  is  a  man  ! '  " 

— Dryden. 

Gordon  is  dead  ! 
r.id  revelry  be  still,  hush  the  light  song 
And  softly  pass  the  dismal  word  along — 

Gordon  is  dead  ! 
The  glorious  star  is  out,  and  night  has  come, 
Comrade  with  the  dim  eye  and  drooping  head ; 
Comrade  with  the  low  beat  of  muffled  drum  ; 
I  pluck  the  cypress  branch,  and  mourn  with  you, 
Ihe  noble  heart — the  man — the  soldier  true  ! 
0  bells,  ring  out  a  dreary  knell ; 

0  martial  music,  sadly  play  ; 
0  voices,  with  a  requiem,  swell 
The  dirges  of  this  mournful  day ! 

Gordon,  adieu ! 
Darling  of  England's  breast — her  modest  son — 
First  on  the  scroll  of  fame  for  duty  done- 
Warrior,  adieu  ! 
liest  comes  at  last,  good  night  to  sword  and  plume ; 
]')Ut  the  world  weeps,  and  evermore  will  rue 
The  foulest  treachery  of  dark  Khartoum. 


MARY  COLBORNE   VEEL.  563 

Can  y  low  the  Union  Jack,  far  let  it  -wave ; 
Gordon  is  gone — gone  to  a  hero's  grave  ! 
0  bells,  ring  out  a  dreary  knell ; 

0  martial  music,  sadly  play ; 
0  voices,  with  a  requiem,  swell 
The  dirges  of  this  mournful  day ! 


MARY  COLBOENE  VEEL. 

[Of  Canterbury,  Christchurch,  New  Zealand.  A  young  New 
Zealand  native,  who  has  contributed  capital  poems  to  the  New 
Zealand  papers,  though  she  has  published  no  volume  as  yet. 
Her  writing  is  very  bright  and  full  of  observation.] 

SATURDAY  NIGHT, 

Saturday  night  in  the  crowded  town ; 
Pleasure  and  pain  going  up  and  down, 
Murmuring  low  on  the  ear  their  beat, 
Echoes  unceasing  of  voice  and  feet. 
AVithered  age  with  its  load  of  care 
Come  in  this  tumult  of  life  to  share, 
Childhood  glad  in  its  radiance  brief, 
Happiest-hearted  or  bowed  with  grief, 
Meet  alike,  as  the  stars  look  down. 
Week  by  week  on  the  crowded  town. 

And,  in  a  lingdom  of  mystery. 
Rapt  from  this  wearifid  world  to  see, 
Magic  sights  in  the  yelloiv  glare, 
Breathing  delight  in  the  gas-lit  air, 
Careless  of  sorrotv,  of  grief,  or  pain, 
Two  by  two,  again  and  again, 
StrepJion  and  Chloe  together  move. 
Walking  in  Arcady,  land  of  love. 


56-^  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

What  are  the  meanings  that  burden  all 
These  murmuring  voices  tliat  rise  and  fall  ? 
Tragedies  whispered  or  secrets  told, 
Over  the  baskets  of  bought  and  sold, 
Joyous  speech  of  the  lately  wed : 
Eroken  lamentings  that  name  the  dead  : 
Endless  runes  of  the  gossips  rede, 
And  gathered  home  with  the  weekly  need, 
Kindly  greetings  as  neighbours  meet 
There  in  the  stir  of  the  busy  street. 

There  in  the  glare  of  the  gaslight  ray, 
Gifted  with  potency  strange  to-day. 
Records  of  time-written  history 
Flash  into  light  as  each  face  goes  by. 
There,  as  the  hundreds  slow  moving  go, 
Each  with  his  burden  of  joy  or  woe. 
Souls  in  the  meeting  of  stranger's  eyes, 
Startled  this  kinship  to  recognise, — 
Meet  and  part,  as  the  stars  look  down, 
Week  by  week  on  the  crowded  town. 

And  still  in  the  midst  of  the  busy  Jmni, 
Rapt  in  their  dream  of  delight  they  come, 
Heedless  of  sorrow,  of  grief,  or  care, 
Wandering  on  in  enchanted  air. 
Far  from  the  haunting  shadow  of  pain. 
Two  by  two,  again  and  again, 
IStrephon  and  Chloe  together  move, 
Walking  in  Arcady,  land  of  love. 


GARNET  WALCH.  5C5 

GARNET  AVALCII. 

[Son  of  ^Major  Walch,  54th  Eegiment,  born  Tasmania  1843.  Edu- 
cati'il  partly  in  I'^ngland,  partly  at  Heidelberg,  Germany. 
Returning  to  Tasmania,  first  joined  his  brothers  in  firm  of  Walch 
Bros.,  piibli.shers^  and  booksellers  ;  went  to  New  South  Wales 
and  edited  a  local  paper  at  Parramatta,  his  rival  being  Mr. 
Henniker  Heaton,  M.P.  Began  independent  literary  life  at 
Sydney  ;  then  went  to  ISIelbourne,  where  for  six  years  he  was 
Secretary  of  the  local  AtheuEEum.  Published  a  .succession  of 
Christmas  annuals,  a  slight  volume  of  verses  (T/ie  Little  Tin 
J'latt),  and  an  important  and  intere.^ting  work  entitled  Victoria 
in  1880.  Has  almost  regularly  supplied  the  theatres  with  an 
e.xtravaganza  at  Christmas.] 

A  LITTLE  TIN  PLATE. 

Amidst  the  massive  sideboard's  burnished  wealtli — 

Rich  flagons,  loving  cups,  and  wassail  bowls. 

Brave  trophies  of  the  river  and  the  hunt. 

And  old-world  tankards  bossed  with  pictured  talc — 

Fair  in  the  centre,  as  a  place  of  pride. 

On  special  pedestal,  there  rests  a  plate, 

An  old  tin  plate — a  battered,  dinted  plate, 

With  alphabet  for  legend  round  its  marge 

Encircling  Wellington  in  bold  relief, 

His  cocked  hat  glory  vying  with  his  nose 

To  vouch  the  portrait  true  past  breath  of  doubt — 

A  shabby,  sorry  plate — a  dingy  plate — 

A  Pariah  of  plates,  yet  still  a  plate 

That  has  its  story,  and  the  story  thus  : — 

That  plate  there  was  bought  by  Jack  Hill, 
'Bout  the  time  of  the  rush  to  Split  Creek, 

For  to  give  to  his  kid,  little  Bill. 
I  remember  it,  same  as  last  week. 

Little  Bill  was  a  bright  four-year-old. 
Could  toddle  an'  talk  with  the  beat — 


566  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Blue  eyes,  an'  his  curly  liair  gold, 

An'  such  limbs — you  should  see  him  undressed  ! 
Most  kids  has  some  ways  of  their  own, 

An'  Bill's  was  the  takingest  out. 
To  watch  that  there  infant  alone 

Was  as  good  any  day  as  a  shout. 
Jack  Hill — which  the  name  was  a  blind — 

Was  as  fond  of  the  child  as  could  be  ; 
That  loving,  an'  tender,  an'  kind, 

You'd  have  thought  he  was  three  parts  a  she. 
It  was  all  he  had  left  of  his  luck 

Since  his  wife,  poor  young  creatur',  liad  died ; 
But  though  "  patches  "  was  not  to  be  struck, 

He  was  happy  with  Bill  by  his  side. 
Most  days  Bill  to  lessons  was  sent, 

While  his  father  worked  eighty  foot  down, 
But  at  night  the  boy  slep'  in  the  tent, 

In  a  crib  like  the  smartest  in  town ; 
An'  on  Sundays  no  shaft  an'  no  school. 

But  a  regular  treat  for  the  pair, 
With  a  stroll  in  the  bush,  as  a  rule, 

An'  a  extra  bit  lisp  of  a  prayer. 
Jack  was  never  a  psalm-singing  one, 

There  wasn't  much  snuffle  in  him, 
But  what  the  young  mother  begun 

He  wouldn't  allow  to  go  dim. 
An'  he  used  to  tell  yarns  to  that  kid, 

Me  being  his  mate — do  you  "  take  "  1 — 
For  to  put  Bill  to  sleep,  an'  they  did, 

But  they'd  keep  i7ie  all  night  wide  awake — 
Such  twisters  of  fairies  with  wings 

As  lived  in  each  flower,  on  each  bough, 
An'  of  all  sorts  of  fanciful  things. 

Which  their  names,  though,  has  slipped  me  just  now; 
But  never  no  bogeyfied  rot 

That  them  nurses  prefer,  as  it  seems, 


GARNET  WALCH.  567 

And  that  proved  Jack  to  know  what  was  what, 

For  the  boy  always  smiled  in  his  dreams. 
Times  kep'  quisby,  for  when  we  were  through, 

An'  had  bottomed  clean  on  to  the  lead, 
The  wash-dirt  turned  out  a  dead  slew ; 

'Twas  enough  to  make  any  heart  bleed — 
IS'ot  a  speck  !  not  a  load  for  an  ant, 

Not  as  much  as  would  fill  a  fly's  eye, 
We  hadn't  a  show  for  a  slant, 

It  was  plain  that  our  luck  was  sky-high. 
Says  I,  "Let's  jack  up,  man  alive, 

An'  try  further  down  on  tlie  Creek  !  " 
"  All  right !  "  says  my  mate,  "  but  we'll  drive 

Riglit  and  left  to  the  end  of  this  week." 
So  we  drove  for  a  couple  of  days, 

An'  still  we  was  out  in  the  cold. 
When,  sudden  as  straw  in  a  blaze, 

I'm  blamed,  if  we  didn't  strike  gold  ! 
Such  gold,  too,  the  nuggety  kind ; 

Like  plums  stuck  in  duff,  they  was  thick, 
With  a  prospect  of  plenty  behind. 

For  it  bettered  each  stroke  of  the  pick. 
At  first  we  was  quite  took  aback — 

Luck  like  this  !  when  we  thought  luck  was  spent. 
Then  I  touched  flesh  in  silence  with  Jack, 

An.'  at  it,  like  tigers  we  Avent. 
We'd  got  it,  at  last — the  right  sort ! 

But  we  didn't  say  one  single  word. 
For,  whatever  the  pair  of  us  thought, 

'Twas  our  picks,  not  our  tongues,  as  we  stirred. 
At  night,  when  snug  fixed  in  our  beds, 

There'd  be  plenty  of  time  to  rejoice — 
With  that,  man,  right  over  our  heads. 

We  was  scared  by  the  sound  of  a  voice  ! — 
'Twas  the  schoolmaster  come  to  report 

As  poor  Uttle  Bill  was  took  bad. 


568  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Jack  downs  witli  his  i:)ick  quick  as  thought, 

And  ups  to  the  surface  hke  mad  ! 
Wlien  I  follows — I  waited  to  get 

A  hag  of  them  plums,  if  you  please — 
There  Avas  Jack,  like  a  statter  he  set. 

With  Bill,  half  asleep,  on  his  knees. 
Says  I,  thinking  'twould  take  off  the  rough 

(For  I  see  that  the  kid  was  real  had), 
"  Here's  a  sack  full  of  comfortin'  stuff  !  " — 

"  Speak  soft,"  hisses  Jack  ;  "  are  you  mad  1 
Chuck  that  muck  in  the  corner — an'  start 

For  the  toAvnship — an'  rouse  up  old  Heard, 
An'  tell  him  to  come  an'  look  smart !  " 

I  Avas  off  like  a  redshank,  my  word  ! 
Old  Heard  was  a  doctorin'  bloke, 

Knew  as  much  as  most  "medical  men," 
Which  ain't  lashings — a  beggar  to  soak, 

But  sober  enough  now  and  then. 
He  was  right,  for  a  wonder,  this  day, 

An'  as  wise  as  a  mopoke  with  that  ^ 
So  we  into  his  visitin'-sha}', 

An'  along  the  back  track  at  a  bat ! — 
Heard  hauls  out  a  watch  from  his  kick. 

Feels  Bill's  pulse,  as  it  seemed,  half  an  hour : 
Next  he  has  a  long  suck  at  his  stick 

(Which,  to  judge  by  his  look,  tasted  sour)  ; 
■    Then  he  shakes  his  old  chump  to  and  fro, 

At  a  dignified  pendylum  pace, 
An'  he  mutters,  half  'loud  and  half  low, 

"  Bad  case — ah  !  a  very  bad  case." 
Says  Jack,  "  So  I  thought :  now,  fair's  fair — 

You've  to  save  him,  that's  ivhat  you've  to  do. 
For  a  week  or  so.  Heard,  you  keep  square ; 

An'  if,  by  God's  grace,  he  pulls  through, 
D'ye  see  that  bag  there?  Jialf  is  mine; 

You  shall  have  it — ah  !  handle  the  weidit. 


GARNET  IVALCH.  569 

Says  I,'"  Come,  our  forces  we'll  jine, 

For  I  goes  the  other  half,  mate." 
Well,  old  Heard  did  his  best  for  that  fee, 

Kep'  as  straight  as  a  clear  splitting  pine, 
But  no  use,  for  it  wasn't  to  be, 

Kot  for  all  the  gold  south  of  the  line. 
When  He  says  that  the  flower  must  fade, 

The  gardeners  may  watch  and  may  tend, 
But  His  is  the  will  that's  \)beyed — 

I  suppose  it's  all  right  in  the  end. 
*'  Water — water  !  " — that  hoarse  little  cry 

Grew  weaker  and  weaker,  until 
For  hours  that  there  darlin'  would  lie 

Like  a  pretty  wax  figure— so  still. 
Don't  you  snuff?  no,  quite  right — as  you  sr.j, 

It's  a  habit  that's  best  left  alone ; 
It  makes  one's  eyes  water,  too — hey  ! 

But  it  comforts  me  sometimes,  I  own. 
Well,  an  hour  before  little  Bill  died, 

He  picked  up  that  'dentical  plate 
Which  had  been  his  partickilar  pride. 

An'  he  holds  it  out  straight  to  my  mate 
(It  caught  one  big  tear  as  it  fell). 

Says  he,  "  Pa,  dear,  you  gave  this  to  Bill 
For  learning  his  letters  so  well. 

Will  you  keep  it,  an'  think  of  me  still  1 
Mamma  will  be  glad  that  I've  come. 

And  for  you  we  will  both  of  us  wait 
Up  there  in  that  beautiful  home, 

An'  mind,  pa  !  you  bring  me  my  plate  !  " 
'Twas  a  mere  childish  fancy  at  best, 

More  like  to  cause  laughter  than  tears, 
But  it  shows  how  that  innocent  blest 

Of  the  death  we  so  dread  had  no  fears — 
Then  he  turns  to  a  blubb'ring  old  fool. 

An',  says  he,  "  Stupid  Bob,  don't  you  cry ; 


570  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Little  Bill  isn't  going  to  scliool, 
He's  going  to  heaven — good-bye  ! " 

He  laid  liis  sweet  head  on  Jack's  arm, 
With  the  other  hand  tight  in  his  own, 

An'  he  passed  away  smilin'  an'  calm, 
An'  Jack,  poor  old  Jack,  was  alone  ! 

At  first  he  was  stunned-like,  was  Jack, 

But  none  the  less  ready  for  work. 
My  word  !  he  did  more  than  his  whack ; 

He  was  never  a  cove  as  would  shirk — 
An'  as  if  to  make  up  for  our  loss 

That  there  claim  kep'  on,  plum  after  pluui ; 
Every  day  we  were  droppin'  across 

Half-a-dozen  as  big  as  your  thumb. 
But  Jack — and  I  think  I'd  a  share 

In  them  feelin's — thought  more  of  one  curled 
Golden  lock  of  his  dead  darlin's  hair 

Than  of  all  the  blamed  gold  in  the  world. 

It  spread  round  the  camp  like  a  shot 

That  Jack  Hill  an'  Bob  Smith  were  in  luck, 
But  none  of  our  neighbours  had  got 

A  slice  of  the  plum-dufT  we^d  struck — • 
Just  tucker  was  all  they  could  raise. 

An'  some  of  'em  not  even  that ; 
Such  is  Fortune's  cantankerous  ways, 

All  purr,  or  all  claw,  the  old  cat. 
Well,  one  night — you're  not  tired  ?  no — all  right ; 

There  isn't  much  more  to  be  told. 
One  dark,  bitter  cold  August  night 

We've  turned  in  dead  beat,  an'  the  gold 
Is  under  Jack's  head — both  asleep — 

When  two  beggars  crawl  into  the  tent ; 
They  had  watched  right  enough — an'  they  creep, 

Like  a  couple  of  hounds  on  the  scent, 


GARXET  WALCIL  571 

One  towards  me — an'  the  other,  by  Jack, 

Slips  a  hand  where  the  shammy  is  stowed; 
T'other  fist,  for  safe,  silent  attack, 

Grips  a  sharp  butcher's  knife — well,  I'm  blowed, 
Jack  wakes — but  too  late ;  through  the  air. 

Quick  as  lightning,  sir,  down  comes  the  knife 
Dead  straight  for  his  heart — an' — well,  there, 

That  little  tin  plate  saves  his  life. 

We'd  a  tuzzle,  of  course — twig  this  scar? 

But  we  nobbled  'em  both — one  I  shot, 
And  the  other's  in  Pentridge,  Black  Parr; 

I  think  it  was  ten  years  he  got. 
Jack  settled  in  ]\Ielbourne  long  since, 

No  cause  for  to  fossick  or  roam. 
An'  them  cups  an'  things,  fit  for  a  prince, 

Come  out  with  a  fortune  from  Home ; 
Which  his  name  isn't  Jack — no — nor  Hill, 

I  told  you,  you'll  mind,  at  the  start — 
Oh,  yes,  he's  a  widower  still. 

Though  South  Yarra  tries  hard  for  his  heart. 
I  fancy  that  plate  is  the  charm 

As  drives  Cupid's  arrows  back  bent, 
An'  who  knows  but  it  shields  him  from  harm 

As  it  did  that  dark  night  in  the  tent  ? 
But  though  Jack  is  well  bred,  an'  I  ain't, 

Though  he's  reckoned  a  "  man  of  much  weight," 
He's  neither  a  prig  nor  a  saint. 

An'  he  never  goes  back  on  his  mate. 
He'd  relations  afloat  on  the  Flood — 

He's  the  boss  of  this  elegant  place — 
Here  he  comes  ! — it's  my  nevvy,  my  lud, 

Charles  Smith — hem  !  Sir  Bayard  Fitz-Sayce. 


572  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

GOOD  NEWS. 

j\IoosTARCHERS  and  hair  black  as  jet, 

Tall  and  tliin,  with  a  sad  kind  of  smile ; 
Soft-handed,  soft-voiced,  but  well  set — 

A  new  chum  in  manners  and  style. 
That's  him,  sir — that's  him ;  he's  been  here 

A  matter  of  nigh  fourteen  weeks, 
"Which  I  know  by  the  rent  in  arrear ; 

Though  a  gent — you  can  tell  when  he  speaks- 
Came  one  night  about  eight,  hired  a  room 

Without  board — it's  four  shillings,  and  cheap, 
Though  I  say  it,  and  me  and  the  broom, 

And  good  yaller  soap  for  its  keep ; 
And  a  widow  with  nine,  which  the  twins — 

Bless  their  'arts — are  that  sturdy  and  bold. 
At  their  tricks  soon  as  daylight  begins, 

Even  now  when  it's  perishing  cold 
0'  mornings  ;  and  Betsy,  my  girl, 

As  answered  the  door,  sir,  for  you, 
She's  so  slow,  for  her  age,  though  a  pearl 

When  there's  any  long  job  to  get  through ; 
And  Bobby — but  there,  I  forgot ; 

You'll  pardon  a  mother,  I  know. 
Well,  for  six  weeks  he  paid  up  his  shot, 

And  then  I  could  see  funds  was  low. 
He  dressed  just  as  neat,  but  his  coat 

Got  buttoned  up  nigher  his  chin, 
And  the  scarf  twisted  round  his  poor  throat 

Missed  a  friend  in  the  shape  of  a  pin. 
So  the  rent  it  run  on,  for,  says  I, 

He's  out  of  his  luck,  I  can  see, 
And  wants  all  his  money  to  buy 

His  wittles  (you  brat,  let  that  be). 
Where  he  works  I  can't  tell,  but  he's  out 

Every  morning  at  nine  from  the  house, 


GARNET  WALCH.  573 

And  he  comes  Lack  at  six  or  about, 

And  up  to  his  room  like  a  mouse. 
On  Sundays  the  same,  though  I  s'pose 

He  visits  his  friends  on  that  day, 
But  where  it  may  be  that  he  goes 

It's  not  in  my  knowledge  to  say. 
He  ain"t  well,  I  can  tell  by  his  walk ; 

He's  as  thin  as  a  lath,  and  that  pale ; 
But  I  never  could  get  him  to  talk, 

So  I  can't  rightly  guess  what  may  ail. 
He  never  sends  out  for  no  beer. 

He  don't  smoke,  and  as  far  as  I  see, 
Beyond  the  few  clothes  he  brought  here, 

And  a  desk,  he's  as  hard  up  as  me. 
What !  you  bring  him  good  news  ;  I  am  glad  ! 

A  fortune  !     Ten  thousand  !     Oh,  la  ! 
Tliat's  the  physic  for  you,  my  poor  lad. 

This  way,  sir ;  it's  not  very  far. 
]\Iind  that  stair,  please — the  banister's  broke. 

Here's  his  door ;  hush,  I'll  knock.     Ah  !  asleep. 
Can't  help  it — you'd  better  be  woke ; 

The  news  is  too  pretty  to  keep. 
Ain't  he  sound,  eh  ?     Poor  fellow,  he's  rocked 

To  rest  in  the  kingdom  of  Nod. 
We'd  better  go  in.     It's  not  locked. 

Follow  me,  sir.     All  dark.     Oh  !  my  God  ! 


A  SPRAY  OF  AMARANTH. 

A  MOUNTAIN  brook,  that  nigh  its  fount  of  birth. 

Leaps  the  sheer  cliff  in  brave  bright  arch  unbroken, 

Then  sinks  into  the  bosom  of  kind  Earth 

In  rainbowed  spray,  a  Hecven-promise  token. 


574  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Such  was  thy  life,  sweet  Kate — an  impulse  dream, 
Nature  and  Fancy  mingling  to  excel ; 

Thy  being  gushed  in  one  pure  generous  stream, 
Then  leapt  to  rest  in  rainbow-hued  farewell. 

Is  it  not  better  that  the  brooklet  sped 
In  crystal  beauty  to  its  maiden  grave, 

Than  deepened  into  dulness  as  it  spread 

With  rocks  and  shoals  to  fret  its  widening  wave  ? 

"We'll  deem  it  so ;  for  while  we  mourn  our  loss, 
And  miss  the  radiant  maiden  of  our  love, 

Lo !  in  the  very  shadow  of  the  Cross 

Hope  stands  serene,  and,  smiling,  points  above. 


DRIFTING. 

Drifting,  drifting,  onward  drifting  ! 

Love,  upon  thy  stream  we  glide, 
'Midst  the  roseate  glorious  shifting 

Of  the  eventide. 

Balmy  zephyrs  close  pursuing 

Whisper  words  our  hearts  translate  ; 

When  the  very  winds  are  wooing, 
Shall  we  hesitate  ? 

Ripples  round  our  galley  pressing 
Coyly  kiss,  then  kiss  again; 

If  the  waves  are  so  caressing. 
Why  should  we  refrain  ? 

Here  are  none  to  check  or  chide  us, 
None  to  caution  or  divide  ; 

Love  alone  to  guard  and  guide  us, 
Drifting  with  the  tide. 


GARNET  WALCH.  575 

Drifting,  drifting — ■whither  drifting, 

Oh,  carissima,  with  thee  !  * 

To  the  radiant  skies  uplifting, 

Or  a  storm-swept  sea. 


BRA  VA,  TASMANIA  / 

Remove  yon  ruutton  from  ni}'  sight, 
Yon  pallid  loaf  and  sordid  pickk'S, 

I've  supped  on  melody  to-night — 
1^0  grosser  food  my  palate  tickles. 

Have  I  not  sat  entranced,  hewitched 
By  her,  our  new-found  primadonna ; 

Then  hurled  her  blessings,  likewise  pitched, 
My  partner's  bouquet  down  uj)on  her. 

(Excuse  the  rhyme.     I  own  it  crude; 

But  cannot  wait  to  seek  a  neater ; 
AVhen  with  one's  subject  one's  imbued, 

"What  matter  rhyme,  or  sense,  or  metre  ?) 

A  voice  that  thrilled,  a  voice  that  stilled 
The  very  hearts  of  all  who  listened, 

And  called  up  happy  tears  that  filled 

The  eyes  wherein  they  welled  and  glistened. 

The  voice  of  warbling  Philomel, 

Lidliug  to  rest  the  fair  Titania. 
It  ceases — hark  !  the  plaudits  swell, 

Cheer  upon  cheer — Brava,  Tasmania  I 

I  always  liked  good  singing  ;  yes, 

Since  I  was  quite  a  tiny  shaver. 
Though  I  don't  know,  I  must  confess, 

A  crochet  from  a  semiquaver. 


576  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

I  hfiven't  the  remotest  ken 
Of  scales  chromatic,  diatonic  ! 

(And  yet  I  meet  no  end  of  men, 
All  members  of  the  Philharmonic). 

Dut  I  am  strangely  moved  to-n'ght, 

I  can't  be  calm  and  analytic, 
ISTor  vivisect  my  warm  delight 

"With  cold-nibbed  steel  like  yonder  critic. 

Her  "  D  below  the  treble  stave," 

Her  "  F  "  that  soars  so  far  above  it — - 

Of  these  let  wiseheads  prate  and  rave. 
They  sift  her  voice,  I  simply  love  it. 

Who  says  we  have  no  birds  of  song 
Save  those  from  other  lands  imported, 

Does  us,  pardi,  a  grievous  wrong, 
The  statement  of  a  mind  distorted. 

We  have  sweet  birds,  whose  native  notes 
The  public  praise  without  demur  win ; 

And  latest,  best,  the  rhymester  quotes 
His  countrywoman — Amy  Sherwin. 


MARCUS  CLARKE. 

LINES    SPOKEN    AT    THE    MEMORIAL    BENEFIT. 

A  TEARDROP  fell  upon  a  poet's  grave 

From  eyes  that  welled  their  sweet  oblation  forth 

Yet  owned  no  kinship  to  the  happy  dead — 

And  he  who  wept  was  only  rich  in  tears ; 

Gave  them  as  sorrow's  tribute  and  his  all. 

A  passing  angel  saw  the  radiant  flash 

Marking  the  sunlit  transit  of  that  tear ; 


GARNET  WALCH.  ^77 

And  when  the  .widow  came  to  mourn  her  lot 
She  found  a  diamond  of  priceless  worth, 
All  hope's  bright  hues  reflected  in  its  depths, 
In  rainbow-promise  of  still  happy  days. 

So  runs  a  legend  I  have  somewhere  read 
Or  dreamed  about — it  matters  little  wliich, 
The  moral  of  the  fable  is  my  theme — 
Heaven  makes  true  pity  practical. 
We  with  our  grief  can  act  that  angel's  part, 
And,  aided  by  the  Alchemy  of  Love, 
Transmute  our  friendly  tears  to  solid  gold 
Stamped  with  the  hall-mark  of  a  human  heart. 

The  brightest  genius  that  our  land  could  boast, 

T\Tiose  gifts  outweighed  the  gathered  golden  ore 

Of  thrice  ten  years — is  dead  at  half  life's  span. 

Dead!  when  coy  August-buds  are  whisp'ring  "spring," 

And  nature  wakes  to  trill  her  native  song. 

Asleep  !  asleep  too  soon  !     For  thee,  dear  friend, 

No  golden  harvest,  and  no  after  death ; 

No  ripened  vintage  of  the  full-globed  grape  ; 

No  luscious  Wine  of  Life — no  fruited  Fame, 

No  flowers  save  those  pale  blooms  that  deck  thy  grave. 

0  !  cruel  blast — 0  !  keen-eyed,  callous  frost, 

Killing  the  tree  that  blossomed  earliest,  best — 

The  one  brave  tree  whose  growth  we  watched  with  pride. 

But  stay  thy  stroke  !     The  tender  ivy-vines 
That  lack  the  lord  they  loved,  and  lie  along. 
Trailing  in  tear-dew — widowed — fatherless — 
Shall  feel  fresh  warmth — the  warmth  of  beating  hearts. 
Nor  fear  thy  further  spite — the  self-same  hand 
That  scattered  gold  when  India's  millions  starved 
And  drcAv  the  purse-strings  wide  at  Erin's  call 

2  o 


578  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Will  surely  help  tlieir  own,  their  best  beloved, 
AYho  sit  at  Home,  beside  the  joyless  hearth 
Aye  !  even  so  !     Behold  the  answer  here, 
Sleep !  Marcus,  sleep !  thy  dear  ones  are  our  care. 

Theatre  Royal,  Melbourne, 
Aug.  i8,  1881. 


SANS  SOU  CI. 
I. 

What  a  love,  what  a  duck  of  a  place  !  was  Maria's  remark. 
After  viewing  the  house  we  had  bought — Eden  Eow, 

Albert  Park — 
What  a  love,  what  a  duck  of  a  place !  and  I  echoed  the  words, 
It  was  really  an  elegant  nest — fit  for  two  loving  birds — 
Known  till  then  as  "Old  Muggleton's  Spec,"  but  as  soon 

as  we  came 
'Twas  resolved  at  a  family  council  to  better  that  name. 
I   suggested   the   Roost   or   the   Den,   but    Maria    said 

"Goosey, 
It  will  sound  far  more  knowing  and  nice  if  we  call  it 

'  Sans  Souci.'  " 
Idea  parenthetic  crops  up  here,  and,  in  my  opinion, 
'Tis  a  matter  deserving  research,  of  a  nature  Darwinian, 
Why  our  women,  regardless  of  sex,  from  drudge  Sal  to 

Amanda, 
Should  address  the  male  human  as  "goosey"  and  never 

as  "gander." 
We  adopted  "Sans  Souci"  forthwith,  and  the  painter 

next  day 
Inscribed  on  our  outposts  the  charm  that  would  keep  care 

away. 
Now  I  never  believed  much  in  omens  and  stuff  of  that  sort. 
But  something  occurred  which,  since  then,  has  occasioned 

me  thought. 


GARNET  WALCH.  579 

"When  that  painter  had  barely  concluded,  a  van  at  the  gate 
Delivered   betwixt    those    twin    columns   a   package    of 

weight ; 
'Twas  a  gift  from  an  Albury  uncle,  a  vigneron  there — 
And  that  hamper  of  wine  of  the  country  was  branded 

"with  care." 

II. 

By  the  time  that  our  note-paper  came  with  the  Sans 

Souci  stamp, 
We  had  subtle  suggestions  of  drains  and  faint  frescoes  of 

damp, 
Not  improved  by  a  shower  or  two,  for  the  weather  was 

juicy, 
And  the  rain  had  a  way  of  its  own  through  the  roof  at 

Sans  Souci. 
The  cockroach  encroached  on  our  rights  in  vast  squadrons 

by  night, 
Battalions  of  ants  were  deployed  at  the  first  dawn  of  light, 
Slugs  sought   out  the   cosiest  corners,  and   wallowed   in 

slime. 
And  death-watches  puzzled  our  clock  till  it  ticked  out  of 

time ; 
That  furtive  old  rodent  the  rat,  with  its  ally  the  mouse, 
Made  dozens  of  tiny  Thames  tunnels  all  over  the  house. 
Moths,  mosquitoes,  and  fleas,  and  fleas'  cousins  of  flatter 

proportions 
Throve  gaily,  and  centipedes  crawled  round  in  horrid  con- 
tortions. 
Flies   darkened    the   air  as   in   Egypt,   a   black    buzzing 

stream. 
And  the  song  of  the  blowfly  was  heard  like  the  roaring  of 

steam, 
'\Miile  larrikin  spiders  aloft,  like  youths  trammelled  in  sin. 
Exhausted  their  vital  resources  to  keep  on  the  spin. 


5So  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

You'd  have  thought  Messrs.  Xoah  &  Sons  had  announced 

a  fresh  trip, 
And  that  all  the  small  fry  of  the  show  just  to  fill  up  the 

ship 
Had  been  ordered  aboard,  but  alas,  had  gone  wide  of  their 

mark 
And  mistaken  San  Souci  the  moist  for  that  clipper,  the 

Ark. 
Then  the  gaspipes  had  odorous  leaks,  and  the  water-pipes 

burst, 
While  the  draughts  grew  to  hurricane  strength  that  were 

zephyrs  at  first ; 
There  wasn't  a  chimney  but  smoked  or   a  window  but 

squeaked, 
And  the  doors,  though  anointed  each  day,  still  defiantly 

shrieked, 
And  the  garden  was  not  a  success,  for  we  planted  sweet 

pea 
And  it  came  up  "old  man,"  mixed  with  weeds  of  the 

rankest  degree. 
What  we  sowed  that  by  no  chance  we  reaped,  though  in 

search  after  cures 
I  wasted  my  substance  in  bones  and  less  cheerful  manures. 
Then  the  neighbours  deputed  a  body  who,  noses  hard  held. 
Obtained  by  politeness  relief  which  they  might  have  com- 
pelled. 
Thus  matters  progressed  day  by  day  in  gradations  of  worse, 
And  the  clouds  that  o'ershadowed  our  house  still  refused 

to  disperse. 
Till  at  last  when  the  cat  died  of  cramps,  and  the  twins 

caught  the  croup. 
And  the  cook  in  an  aguey  fit,  fell  into  tlie  soup, 
We  gave  ourselves  notice  to  quit,  and  Maria  and  Goosey 
Fled    far   from    that    home    of    Black    Care    which    we 

christened  "  Sans  Souci." 


GARNET  WALCII.  5S1 


A  DRUG  IN  THE  MARKET. 

I  STOOD  in  tlie  street  in  the  noontide,  precisely  at  midday 

time, 
For  the  loud-mouthed  bells  of    the  G.  P.  0.  had    that 

moment  ceased  to  chime 
(I  trust   to   the  public   dial,    since   the   lever  I  used  to 

wear. 
The  one  Cousin  Amy  gave,  my  uncle  has — to  repair). 

Well,  I  stood  in  the  street  in  the  noontide,  a  breakfastless, 

lunchless  wight, 
'No  prospect  of  dinner  before  me,  no  hope  of  a  bed  for  the 

night. 
And  I  railed  in  good  Anglo-Saxon  at  the  luck  which  had 

brought  me  out 
To  seek  that  Australian  fortune  I'd  dreamed  so  often 

about. 

Thus  I  stood  in  the  street  in  the  noontide,  heart,  stomach, 

and  pocket  void, 
A  seedy  but  well-dressed  loafer,  respectably  unemployed  ; 
And  I  heard  what  was  meant  for  music,  and  the  rhythmical 

tramp  of  the  feet, 
And  many  a  blazoned  banner  I  saw  far  down  the  street. 

And  up  the  street  in  the  noontide  with  the  painfully  solemn 

air 
Which  your  Eriton  in  full  enjoyment  is  proverbially  known 

to  wear, 
There  trooped  in  the  glory  of  broadcloth  some  hundreds 

of  well-fed  men. 
With  a  score  of  aforesaid  banners,   and  bands — well,  I 

counted  ten. 


583  A  USTRA  LI  AN  POETS. 

Up,  up  the  streets  in  the  noontide,  like   ants   on  their 

native  hill, 
These  sorrowful  revellers  swarmed  along  at  a  pace  that 

could  hardly  kill ; 
And  their  banners  swayed  in  the  sunshine  as  their  bearers 

staggered  beneath, 
And  the  whole  ten  bands  played  different  tunes,  till  I 

thought  I  should  shed  my  teeth. 

Then  I  said  to  my  next  hand  neighbour,  a  citizen  hale  and 

stout, 
"  Pray  pardon  a  new  chum's  wonder,  but  what  is  this  all 

about  1 
"Wliose  obsequies  do  we  assist  at;  whom,  whom  do  we 

follow  round. 
And  oh !  why  are  these  mixed  harmonies,  these  gordian- 

knots  of  sound. 

Unto  which  I  received  as  answer,  "  A  funeral !  that  be — 

well ! 
It's   the   Height-hour   Demonstration,  as    any  but  fools 

could  tell. 
It's  the  workmen  of  Melbourne  city,  they're  a-marching 

'and  in  'and. 
All  joining  for  self -protection,  in  one  united  band." 

Then  the  band  that  is  so  united,  though  severed  by  ten 

bands  more, 
Passes  out  of  my  sight  and  hearing  as  it  turns  by  the 

Wliite  Hart  door ; 
And  my  scornful  neighbour  in  going,  of  his  own  free  will 

exclaims, 
"  They're  off  to  the  S'cieties'  Gardens,  t'  enjoy  their  sports 

and  sames." 


GARNET  WALCH.  583 

But  I  stand  at  the  corner-kerbing,  as  loafers  are  wont 

to  do, 
And  chew  the  cud  of  reflection,  whicli  is  all  I  have  to 

chew ; 
And  I  used   some  more  Anglo-Saxon,  of   the  strongest 

kind  that's  made, 
The  burden  being  translated,  "  "\Miy  wasn't  /  taught  a 

trade  ? " 

For  these  cornumanous  parties,  these  eight-hour  working 

bees 
jNIake  honey  (for  "  h"  read  "m"  there),  and  sip  it  sweet 

at  ease  ; 
And  with  them  the  ancient  adage  acquires  this  reading 

new. 
That  "  Jack's  as  good  as  his  master,  and  a  great  deal  better 

too/" 

Ah  yes  !  they  are  truly  blessfed,  these  octohoral  gents, 
Though  their  tipple  is  hardly  Moet,  and  their  ball-rooms 

are  but  tents ; 
They  can  pay  their  way  if  they're  careful,  and  free  from 

trouble  and  debt. 
Can  pity  their  worse  off  betters,  fast  trammelled  by  clique 

and  set. 

'Tis  sweeter  to  spend  a  shilling  that  can  purchase  one 

homely  smile 
Than  to  buy  up  the  sneers  of  the  many  by  paying  for 

spurious  style. 
As  is  done  by  those  tinselled  tilters  who  so  often  salute 

the  ground 
From  a  stride  of  their  counterfeit   chargers  in  society's 

merry-go-round. 


584  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Pour  moi — self  imported,  unordered,  my  chances  must 

needs  be  small — 
I'm  too  heavily  advaloremed  to  find  a  market  at  all. 
Education  and  English  polish  are  very  unsaleable  stuff — 
The  men  that  are  wanted  in  Melbourne  must  be  sent  out 

here  in  the  rough. 

Perhaps  if  I  gained  experience  of  the  sort  that's  colonial- 
made, 

I  might  worship  the  charms  of  protection,  and  learn  to 
abhor  Free  Trade ; 

But,  ad  interim,  comes  starvation  and  I  feel  I  am  hardly 
fit 

To  study  political  problems,  while  in  want  of  a  three- 
penny bit. 

As  thus  I  was  standing  a-musiug,  on  aught  but  amusing 

themes, 
The  chimes  called  the  faithful  to  luncheon  and  rudely 

dispelled  my  dreams ; 
And  my  irrepressible  stomach  reasserted  its  right  to  yearn, 
So  I  started  off  at  a  tangent,  for  my  thoughts  took  a 

practical  turn. 

I  followed  the  Austral  workman  through  the   "golden 

afternoon," 
To  the  scene  of  his  innocent  revels,   where  his  bands 

played  out  of  tune  ; 
And  I  promised  a  Celtic  contractor  to  carry  him  bricks  in 

a  hod, 
For  a  note  a  week  and  my  tucker  and  a  half-a-crown 

down — thank  God  ! 


SARAH  WELCH.  585 


SAEAH  WELCH. 

[Of  Adelaide,  South  Australia,  has  published  a  little  paper  booklet 
entitled  I'he  Dtjhvj  Cliorister  and  the  Chorister's  Funeral.  Is 
a  hospital  nurse  by  profession.] 

THE  DIGGER'S  GRAVE. 

He  sought  Australia's  far-famed  isle, 

Hoping  that  Fortune  on  his  lot  would  smile, 

In  search  for  gold ;  when  one  short  year  had  flown, 

He  wrote  the  welcome  tidings  to  his  own 

Betrothed ;  told  how  months  of  toiling  vain, 

Made  ten-fold  sweeter  to  him  sudden  gain ; 

With  sanguine  words,  traced  with  love's  eager  hand, 

He  hade  her  join  him  in  this  bright  south  land. 

Oft  as  he  sat,  his  long  day's  labour  o'er. 

In  his  bush  hut,  he  dreamed  of  home  once  more ; 

His  thoughts  to  the  old  country  home  in  Kent 

Returned.     'Twas  Christmas-day,  and  they  two  went 

O'er  frost  and  snow ;  the  Christmas  anthem  rang 

Through  the  old  church,  which  echoed  as  they  sang. 

That  day  had  Philip  courage  gained  to  tell 

His  tale  of  love  to  pretty  Christabel ; 

And  she,  on  her  part,  with  ingenuous  grace, 

Endorsed  the  tell-tale  of  her  blushing  face. 

Dream  on,  true  lover,  never,  never  thou 

Shalt  press  the  kiss  of  welcome  on  her  brow. 

E'en  now  a  comrade,  eager  for  thy  gold, 

Above  thy  fond  true  heart  the  knife  doth  hold — 

One  stroke,  the  weapon's  plunged  into  his  breast  ; 

So  sure  the  aim,  that  like  a  child  at  rest. 

The  murdered  digger  lies,  a  happy  smile 

Parts  the  full  manly  bearded  lips  the  while. 


586  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

Next  day  they  found  him.     In  his  death-cold  hand, 
He  held  his  last  home  letter,  lately  scanned 
With  love-lit  eyes ;  and  next  his  heart  they  found 
A  woman's  kerchief,  which,  when  they  unwound, 
Disclosed  a  lock  of  silken  auburn  hair 
And  portrait  of  a  girl's  face,  fresh  and  fair, 
Dyed  with  the  life-blood  of  his  faithful  heart. 
To  more  than  one  eye,  tears  unbidden  start ; 
With  reverent  hands,  and  rough,  unconscious  grace, 
They  laid  him  in  his  lonely  resting-place. 
The  bright-hued  birds,  true  nature's  requiem  gave, 
And  wattle-bloom  bestrews  the  digger's  grave. 


WILLIAM  CHARLES  WENTWORTH. 

["The  great  Australian  Statesman,"  founder  of  the  Sydney 
University,  born  Norfolk  Island,  1791.  Son  of  D'Arcy  Went- 
worth.  Educated  in  England,  first  under  Dr.  Alexander 
Crombie  at  Greenwich,  afterwards  at  the  University  of 
Cambridge,  where  he  unsuccessfully  competed  against  Mack- 
worth  Praed  for  the  Chancellor's  medal  1S23. 

The  subject  was  "Australasia,"  and  though  Praed  secured 
the  prize,  Weutworth's  is  much  the  more  meritorious  per- 
formance ;  ranking  as  a  "prize  poem  "  very  high  indeed. 

Wentworth  had  but  little  time  to  cultivate  the  muses.  He 
finally  returned  to  England  in  1S62,  and  died  in  his  8ist  year, 
at  Wimborne,  Dorsetshire.  His  remains  were  taken  to 
Sydney,  where  they  were  honoured  with  a  public  funeral.] 

AUSTRALASIA. 

Celestial  poesy  !  whose  genial  sway 
Earth's  furthest  habitable  shores  obey  ; 
Whose  inspirations  shed  their  sacred  light. 
Far  as  the  regions  of  the  arctic  night, 


CHARLES   WHITEHEAD.  t^Fj 

And  to  the  Laplander  his  Boreal  gleam 
Endear  not  less  than  Phoebus'  brighter  beam, — 
Descend  thou  also  on  my  native  land, 
And  on  some  mountain-summit  take  thy  stand ; 
Thence  issuing  soon  a  purer  font  be  seen 
Than  charmed  Castalia  or  famed  Hippocrene  j 
And  there  a  richer,  nobler  fame  arise, 
Than  on  Parnassus  met  the  adoring  eyes. 
And  tho',  bright  goddess,  on  those  far  blue  hills, 
That  pour  their  thousand  swift  pellucid  rills. 
Where  Warragumba's  rage  has  rent  in  twain 
Opposing  mountains,  thundering  to  the  plain, 
No  child  of  song  has  yet  invoked  thy  aid, 
'Neath  their  primeval  solitary  shade, — 
Still,  gracious  powers,  some  kindly  soul  inspire, 
To  wake  to  life  my  country's  unknown  lyre. 
That  from  creation's  date  has  slumbering  lain. 
Or  only  breathed  some  savage  uncouth  strain ; — 
And  grant  that  yet  an  Austral  ]\Iilton's  song 
Pactolus-like  flow  deep  and  rich  along ; — 
An  Austral  Shakespeare  rise,  whose  living  page 
To  nature  true  may  charm  in  every  age ; — 
And  that  an  Austral  Pindar  daring  soar. 
Where  not  the  Theban  eagle  reached  before. 


CHAELES  AVHITEHEAD. 

HBorn  1804,  died  1S62  ;  poet,  novelist,  dramatist;  a  native  of  Lon- 
don ;  began  as  clerk  in  a  commercial  house  ;  in  1831  published 
The  Solitary,  a  poem,  and  seems  shortly  afterwards  to  have 
become  an  author  by  profession  ;  in  1S34  published  anony- 
mously the  Autohioyraphy  of  Jack  A'c<c7i,— entirely  fiction  ; 
asked  by  Chapman  &  Hall  to  associate  himself  with  Seymour 
jn  producing  the  book  afterwards  famous  as  The  PicTcioick 
Papers;  declined,   declaring  himself  unequal  to  the  task  of 


588  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

producing  the  copy  with  sufficient  regularity,  and  recommended 
in  his  place  the  young  author  of  Sketches  by  Boz  ;  in  1842 
Mr.  Bentley  published  the  novel  Richard  Savage,  by  which 
Whitehead  will  principally  be  remembered.  Of  this  work 
Dickens  often  spoke  "  with  great  admiration,"  while  Dante 
Rossetti  writes  of  it  as  "  very  remarkable — a  real  character 
really  worked  out ;"  wrote  also  The  Cavalur,  a  poetic  drama, 
the  Earl  of  Essex,  an  historical  romance,  Smiles  and  Tears,  a 
collection  of  stories  and  essays,  and  a  Life  of  Ralegh ;  also  con- 
tributed largely  to  magazines  and  journals.  His  talents  were 
great,  and  Richard  Savage  gave  him  a  brilliant  start ;  unhappily 
fell  into  habits  of  intemperance  ;  to  make  a  fresh  start  accepted 
a  journalistic  appointment  in  Melbourne  in  1857,  but  his  fatal 
propensity  remained.  He  sank  lower  and  lower,  and  in  1862 
died  in  Melbourne  of  destitution,  The  Spanish  Marriage,  the 
fragment  of  a  poetic  drama  from  which  onr  extract  is  taken, 
was  published  in  a  Melbourne  magazine,  and  contains  fine 
passages.  A  most  interesting  and  highly  reviewed  study  of 
the  poet,  Charles  Whitehead,  a  Monograph  with  Extracts  from, 
his  Works,  has  been  published  by  Mr.  H.  T.  Mackenzie  Bell 
(T.  Fisher,  Unwin  &  Co.),  which  has  gone  into  a  second  edition. 
Our  biography  is  an  abridgment  of  Mr.  Mackenzie  Bell's  in 
Celebrities  of  the  Century,  p.  1045. 


THE  SPANISH  MARRIAGE. 
Scene  I 

The  exterior  of  a  catlicdral  at  the  hack  of  the  stage.  Enter 
from  the  door  Charles  and  Posa,  who  descend  the 
steps  and  advance  luirriedly  to  the  front  of  the 
stage. 

Charles.    These    impious    marriage    rites !      0,    lioly 
nature, 
How  are  thou  now  profaned  ! 

Posa.  But  yet,  my  lord, 

Permit  the  friend  who  ventured  to  dissuade  you 
From  being  present  at  this  ceremony, 
To  urge  the  danger  of  a  seeming  scorn 


CHARLES  WHITEHEAD.  5S9 

Cast  on  the  king  by  your  abrupt  departure, 
Before  the  benediction  had  been  given. 

Charles.  The  benediction  !  friglitful  mockery  ! 
Had  I  stayed  longer,  Henry,  I  had  rushed 
To  the  high  altar,  and  in  tones  to  thrill 
The  ashes  of  the  dead  beneath  my  feet. 
Proclaimed  the  scene  a  most  unrighteous  lie. 

Posa.  Let  me  implore,  be  calm. 

Charles.  Be  calm  !  and  love  1 

You  know  she  was  affianced  unto  me ; 
She  knows  it  too,  letters  have  passed  between  us. 
Our  portraits  been  exchanged. — You  know  the  King 
Made  overtures  to  Elizabeth,  Queen  of  England, 
'Who  said  her  hand  was  otherwise  engaged 
In  grasping  tight  the  sceptre.     Thwarted  there, 
This  father  casts  his  eye  tow'rds  France,  and  sees 
His  son's  betrothed — thence,  and  now,  weds  her.     Shame 
On  royal  contract  oaths !     I  am  a  slave, 
A  thing  for  men  to  whet  their  wits  upon, 
To  have  suffered  this. 

Posa.  I  grieve  for  all  the  Avrongs, 

Scorns,  and  indignities  which — 

Charles.  From  my  birth, 

Forget  not  that ! — 

Posa.  The  King  has  heaped  upon  you. 

But  he  is  absolute,  and  waves  his  will 
O'er  every  head  at  pleasure.     Hear  me  now  : 
There  is  no  being  on  the  earth  so  helpless 
As  a  king's  son  and  heir ;  he's  sought  and  flattered, 
And  loved  for  that  which  may  be,  not  which  is  3 
All  in  expectancy,  and  meanwhile  nothing — 
(Aside.)  He  does  not  listen. 

Stay,  they  are  about 
To  leave  the  church ;  the  sacrifice  is  ended  : 
Stand  close  :  you  shall  see  pomp  and  majesty. 


590  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

A  king  and  queen  pass  by — a  stately  sight ! 

You  would  not  think,  sir,  that  the  king  bears  with  him 

A  perjured  heart — the  queen  a  blighted  one. 

Tlie  doors  of  the  cathedral  are  thrown  open,  and  a  mar- 
riage procession  comes  forth  and  passes  out. 

Didst  thou  behold  1  all  is  accomplished  now, 

And  nought  remains  for  me  but  to  begone. 

After  to-day  I  must  not  see  her  more. 

Must  not  ?  who  shall  prevent  me  but  the  king. 

Who  knows  not  what  a  heaven  shines  through  her  eyes 

Into  my  soul  ?     0  thou  hast  triumphed  o'er  me, 

Thou  ruthless  father,  and  I  must  submit. 

In  meek  endurance  of  thy  sharpest  taunts, 

So  I  may  live  here  in  her  presence. 


W.  R.  WILLS. 

[Of  Otahuhu,  Auckland,  New  Zealand,  born  at  Bath,  England, 
January  2 1st,  1837.  Emigrated  to  New  Zealand  about  1875. 
Has  published  three  volumes — Blossoms  of  Early  Life,  Songs 
by  the  Way,  A  Bunch  of  Wild  Pansies  (Auckland,  H.  Brett, 
1885).  Has  also  written  many  songs  which  have  been  set  to 
music  and  published,  and  has  other  volumes  in  preparation.] 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  LOVE. 

The  spirit  of  love 

Went  wandering 
Over  the  desert's  burning  sand  ; 
She  tapped  a  tiny  silver  spring, 
Unfolded  her  wings  and  was  off  again. 
But,  oh  !  the  loving  deep  remains, 


W.  R.   WILLS.  591 

A  living  stream  o'er  the  parched  sod, 

The  burning  sand 

And  desert  land 
Smile  with  the  rippling  riUs  of  God. 

The  spirit  of  love 

Went  wandering 
Over  the  city's  darkest  lair, 
She  bent  her  low  where  a  child  of  woe 
Drank  in  the  deadly  atmosphere. 

She  fanned  him  gently  with  her  wings, 
Cooled  his  brow  with  her  loved  breath  ; 

Like  winnowing  wings 

Of  the  seraphim, 
She  snatched  him  from  the  grasp  of  death. 

O  spirit  of  love  ! 

Sweet  child  of  heaven, 
"Wliere  sorrow  dwells  outspread  thy  wings, 
Give  the  parched  gems  of  the  desert  wild 
The  early  dew  and  the  silver  springs ; 

And  stand  thou  by  when  death  is  nigh, 
And  hearts  are  faint  and  eyes  grow  dim ; 

Give  the  weary  love, 

And  sing,  sweet  dove. 
Of  the  glory-realms  of  the  cherubim. 


FOR  EVER  A  CROWN  OF  THORNS. 

There  came  a  messenger  of  God 

Unto  this  world  of  ours. 
'Twas  but  a  bud  of  purple  may 
With  green  leaves  round  its  tiny  spray, 

Smiling  in  sunny  bowers, — 


592  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

A  maiden,  with,  the  health  of  June 
And  sunshine  round  her  way, 
Kissed  the  sweet  bud — when  lo  !  there  lay 
A  tiny  thorn  ! — Ah  !  gentle  maid, 

Cast  not  the  gem  away  ! 
Dost  thou  expect  all  sunrays, 
And  never  a  cloud  to  frown?' 
Dost  think  the  flowers  have  never  a  thona 
Or  the  east  winds  beat  not 

The  lamb  new  shorn  ? 

Or  a  saint  shall  not  faint 
Till  she  reaches  the  crown 
And  near  the  throne  she  nestles  down  ? 

There  came  a  messenger  of  God 

"With  flowers  around  his  way, 

The  birds  sang  love  and  the  stars  above 

Smiled  fairer  for  him  alway, 

And  he  loved  the  world,  and  he  kissed  its  flowers. 

And  he  roamed  by  the  shore  for  days  and  hours, 

And  he  sang  of  freedom,  and  brotherhood, 

The  weal  of  man,  and  his  brother's  good ; 

But  woe  to  him,  poor  poet  of  love. 

The  clouds  hid  all  fair  stars  above, 

And  the  world  grew  cold,  and  jealousy 

Threw  o'er  his  path  its  irony  ! 

And  his  harp  grew  silent,  oh  !  foolish  bard. 

Strike  sweeter  notes,  when  hearts  are  hard 

And  when  clouds  are  black — and  the  world  is  cold, 

Tell  the  critics  of  hate — they  are  tinged  with  gold. 

Then  sing,  still  sing  of  the  days  to  be, 
When  stars  shall  beam  again  above, 
Sing  freedom's  lays  of  the  brighter  days    ■ 
"When  song  shall  rule  each  heart  of  love. 


W.  R.   WILLS.  593 

Dost  think  each  lieart  is  like  tliy  own, 
Clinging  for  love  near  the  Father's  throne  1 
Dost  think  to  escape  the  viper's  sting  ? 
It  biteth  the  slave — shall  it  spare  the  king  1 
Dost  hope  to  escape  the  critic's  sneer 
When  the  spirit  of  hate  is  everywhere  1 

Ah  !  no — poor  bard,  and  maiden  sweet, 
Still  bless  the  daisies  'neath  your  feet, 
Kiss  God's  fair  flowers — sing  of  worlds  afar, 
Where  love  is  King  o'er  each  smiling  star ! 
And  press,  sweet  maid,  thy  ruby  lips 
To  the  fragrant  rose,  the  thorny  may  ! 
Tho'  they  pierce  the  heart,  or  the  lip  to-day. 
They  shall  smile  in  love,  when  the  thorns  decay. 

Yet  the  singers  of  God  shall  be  crowned  with  thorns, 

And  amid  the  frosted  leaves, 
They  shall  groan  and  cry  for  freedom's  sake, 

Like  Christ  between  the  thieves  ! 
The  Avorld  shall  nail  them  on  the  cross, 

And  pierce  each  loving  side — 
Till  giants  of  love  shall  groan  and  cry, 

*'  0  Father  I  with  us  abide." 
And  the  Father,  tho'  far,  shall  be  near  at  hand,     ' 

He  shall  smite  with  a  whirlwind's  rod. 
And  clasp  the  crucified  Sons  of  Song 

To  the  bosom  of  their  God. 


2  P 


594  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 


APOLLO  AND  MARSYAS. 

Apollo  sancf  a  master  son" 

And  lightly  touched  his  lyre, 
A  bowed  heart  leapt  for  very  joy 

At  its  inspiring  fire — 
The  weary  ones  forgot  their  care, 

The  evil  ones  their  crime, 
The  passions  of  a  cruel  world 

Were  hushed  with  song  divine. 


Marsyas  frowned,  and  mocking  words 

And  ireful  sneer  he  threw  ; 
His  little  mind  has  little  scope 

Eor  love  songs  of  the  true — 
*'  Others  have  sung  the  self-same  song 

With  master-hand  of  yore, 
But  this  boy  mars  the  name  of  song 

As  ne'er  was  marred  before." 

Apollo  smiled,  and  sadly  said — 

"  No  evil  passions  lie, 
No  vengeful  ire  is  in  the  fire 

That  flashes  from  my  eye  ; 
But  I  must  teach  an  evil  tongue, 

A  traitor  heart  this  day, 
'Tis  death  to  sneer — let  critics  fear 

When  master-hands  do  play." 

Marsyas  died,  and  yet  their  lives 

Marsyas  here  to-day ! 
One  who  mocks  but  cannot  sing. 

Who  sneers  but  cannot  play  ; 


FREDERICK  SYDNEY  WILSON.  595 

"Whose  evil  heart  and  venomed  tongue 

But  poisons  what  it  stings, 
Who  throws  contempt  on  songs  or  lays 

A  humble  poet  sings. 

I  still  sing  on  and  half  forgive 

The  venom  and  the  gall, 
For  birds  join  chorus  in  my  song. 

The  sun  shines  over  all. 
And  loving  hearts  will  beat  with  pride, 

And  gentle  eyes  will  beam, 
When  love  shall  strike  this  harp  of  mine, 

And  honour  be  the  theme. 


FREDERICK  SYDNEY  WILSON". 

[Of  Sydney,  New  South  Wales,  author  of  Australian  Sonr/s  and 
Poems  (Gibbs,  Shallard  &  Co.,  Sydney,  1870).] 

WAITING  FOR  THE  MAIL. 

Ereaks  a  sun-streak  through  the  casement — streams  its 

glory  on  the  floor, 
And   the   crisp   and   matted   leafage   rustles   round  the 
cottage  door ; 

Where  the  truant  birds  are  climbing, 
Tapping  on  the  glass  and  chiming 
With  the  sounding  burst  of  billows  breaking   on   the 

shingly  shore  ! 
Watching  by  the  open  casement  where  the  starry  blossoms 

cling. 
Listening  to   the  weary   song  the  weeping  waters  ever 
sing- 
Sad  and  thoughtful  sits  a  maiden, 
For  her  peaceful  breast  is  laden 


596  A  USTRA  LI  AN  POE  TS. 

With  the  wish  for  news  of  one  whose  memory  makes  the 

teardrops  spring. 
So  she  watches  where  the  sun  is  fading  on  a  distant  sail — 
Where  the  scattered  sea-spray  drifts  and  tosses  in  the 
summer  gale, 

And  her  girlish  heart  is  throbbing, 
Like  the  cold  wave's  ceaseless  sobbing, 
0  for  the  weary  youth  and   beauty — waiting — waiting 

for  the  mail ! 
Let  us  track  the  steps  so  longed  for  o'er  the  parched 

Australian  plain — 
Mark  the  spot  that  heard  the  raving  death-call  of  his 
thirsty  pain  ! 

See  the  iron-bark,  unaltered. 
Sheds  its  leaves  where  footsteps  faltered — 
Footfalls  that  shall  never  greet  the  watchful  glance  of 

love  again  ! 
When  wild  dreams  of  brattling  creeks  thrust  in  his  ears 

their  phantom  tones, 
Here  he  fell,  and  clutched  for  water  at  the  burning  sand 
and  stones 

Till  the  tortured  spirit  wrestled 
Forth  its  flight — then  possums  nestled 
In    the    branches,    shyly    wondering    at    the    heap    of 

brightening  bones  ! 
There  he  sleeps — and  mouldering  rags  are  wasting  in  the 

heated  gale — 
Peering   from   the   drifting   sand,   they    flutter   forth   a 
fearful  tale, 

Love  may  watch  and  wait  for  ever, 
But  the  wished-for  voice  will  never 
Tremble  in  the  ear  of  her  who  watches — waiting  for  the 
mail! 


FREDERICK  SYDNEY  WILSON.  597 

TWO  AUSTRALIAN  PICTURES. 

Scene  L 

TJie  landing  of  Captain  Cook,  1770. 

Fiercely  sang  the  white-lipped  surges,  and  the  echoes  of 
their  thunder 
Fled  among  the  ragged  caverns  glaring  on  the  restless 
main, 
And  the  craggy  headlands,  by  the  jealous  waves,  were 
kept  asunder, 
Like  the  gulf  which  parts  for  ever  friends  who  may  not 
meet  again. 

But  the  quiet  bay  those  cliffs  defended,  sparkled  in  its 
splendour, 
And  the  surf -drops  spread  their  silvery  network  o'er 
the  dazzling  sand — 
Where,  like  loving  speeches,  formed  of  accents,  oh  so 
sweetly  tender ! 
Came  the  pleasant  sound  of  waters  meeting  with  the 
willing  land. 

Shone  the  sun  in  noonday  glory,  while  the  white  clouds 
hung  between  it 
And  the  earth,  where  light  and  shade  in  fond  embraces 
seemed  to  cling ; 
And  a  pleasing  darkness  fell  athwart  the  scene,  as  if  to 
screen  it 
With   a   chastened   beauty — like   the   shadow   of    an 
angel's  wing. 

From  the  gunyahs  'neath  the  headland  curled  the  smoke, 
in  circles  drifting 
Round    the   branches,    where    the    gum-trees    ghastly 
shadows  downward  threw 


598  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

On  tlie  water's  glassy  bosom,  where  tlie  idle  sun-streaks 
shifting, 
Mirrored  forth  the  dark-skinned  native  fishing  in  his 
bark  canoe. 

Scarce  a  sound   disturbed  the  silence — only  when  the 
wild-dog  creeping 
Through  the  tangled  thicket,  roused  the  parrots'  harsh 
discordant  scream ; 
For  the  bay  and  beaches,  in  each  other's  arms  were  fondly 
sleeping, 
And  the  pure  Australian  sky  bent  o'er  the  landscape's 
lovely  dream. 

Came  a  battered  vessel  thro'  the  harbour-portal,  and  the 
rattle 
Of  her  web-like  cordage  mingled  with  the  murmurs  of 
the  breeze ; 
While  her  strained  and  creaking  timbers  told  of  many  a 
hard-fought  battle 
With  the  wild  and  warring  tempests,  wandering  over 
weary  seas. 

And  her  crew  gazed  from  the  bulwarks — but  no  hand  in 
love  extended. 
Sought  to  give  the  grasp  of  friendship  to  the  toiling 
wayworn  hand, 
No  dear  voice,  in  pleasant  whispers,  spoke  of  pain  and 
peril  ended 
As  the  rusty  cable  grated,  and  the  anchor  pierced  the 
sand. 

No  fond  mother's  grateful  blessing  hailed  this  "  wanderer 
of  the  Ocean  " — 
No  responsive  feeling  heightened  beauty  on  a  fair  one's 
cheek ; 


FREDERICK  SYDNEY  WILSON.  599 

And  the  land  contained  no  manly  heart  that  throbbed  with 
wild  emotion, 
At  the  sight  of  dear  Old  England's  standard  floating  at 
her  peak. 

But  the  jealous  natives  fled,  their  bosoms  filled  with  fear 
and  wonder — 
Only  two,  with  patriotic  love,  remained  to  guard  the 
strand ; 
And  their  fierce  dissonant  yells  came  wafted  with  the  wild 
wave's  thunder, 
As  the  gallant  leader  placed  his  foot  upon  the  unknown 
land. 

Scene  II. 

Botany  Bay,  1870. 

A  century  has  passed — and  merry  footsteps  twinkle  on 
the  sod ; 
But  that  hardy  baud  of  voyagers  down  a  stranger  path 
hath  trod — 
Down  a  path  whose  mystic  windings  cross  the  future's 
viewless  plain, 
On  whose  waste  the  foot  once  planted  never  may  return 
again. 

True,  the  spot  is  little  altered — Xature  wears  the  look  of 

yore. 
But  the  savage  yell  no  longer  echoes  round  the  quiet  shore. 
Where  the  wild  man  loved  to  urge  his  bark  canoe  amid 

the  spray, 
Now  a  cloud  of  white-winged  skiff's  are  darting  o'er  the 

placid  bay — 
And  the  eager  heart  beats  swifter  as  some  loved  one 

draweth  near. 


6oo  AUSTRALIAN  POETS. 

0  the  tinted  wings  of  Fancy  ! — how  they  bear  us  to  the 

skies, 
As  we  read  our  happy  fate  in  glances  shot  from  beaming 

eyes ! 
Whilst  the  youthful  laugh  re-echoes,  as  we  wander  hand 

in  hand — 
Full  of  music  as  the  deep-toned  fall  of  waves  upon  the 

sand  ! 
But  while  Pleasure  flies  before  us,  let  our  thoughts  be 

backward  cast, 
Let  our  grateful  memories  turn  the  glorious  pages  of  the 

Past; 
Wliere  the  annals  of  our  country  to  admiring  eyes  unfold 
All  the  simple  faith  and  courage  of  those  gallant  men  of 

old! 


THOMAS  WOOLNEK,  E.A. 

[This  famous  sculptor  and  poet  went  out  to  Australia  and  lived 
there  for  several  years.  There  are  many  works  from  his 
chisel  in  the  colonies  besides  his  famous  statue  of  Cook.  We 
learn  from  him  that  the  passage  italicised  in  our  quotation 
from  his  exquisite  My  Beautiful  Lady  is  an  Australian 
reminiscence.] 

From  the  Introduction  to  "My  Beautiful  Lady." 

Our  lives  are  mysteries,  and  rarely  scanned 
As  we  read  stories  writ  by  mortal  pen. 
We  can  perchance  but  catch  a  straying  weft 
And  trace  the  hinted  texture  here  or  there, 
Of  that  stupendous  loom  weaving  our  fates. 
Two  parents,  late  in  life,  are  haply  blessed 
With  one  bright  child,  a  wonder  in  his  years, 
For  loveliness  and  genius  versatile ; 


THOMAS  WOOLNER,  R.A.  6oi 

Some  common  ill  destroys  him ;  parents  both, 

Until  their  death,  are  left  but  living  tombs 

That  hold  the  one  dead  image  of  their  joy. 

A  man,  the  ilower  of  honour,  who  has  found 

His  well-beloved  young  daughter  fled  from  home, 

Fallen  from  her  maidenhood,  a  nameless  thing 

Tainting  his  blood.     A  youth  who  throws  the  strength 

Of  his  ivhole  being  into  love  for  one 

Answering  him  honeyed  smiles,  and  leaves  his  land 

For  some  far  country,  seeking  wealth  he  hopes 

Will  grace  her  daintily  tvith  choice  delights, 

And  on  returning  sees  the  honeyed  smiles 

Are  sweetening  other  lips.     A  husband  wiio 

Has  found  that  household  curse,  a  faithless  wife. 

A  thinker  whose  far-piercing  care  perceives 

His  nation  goes  the  road  that  ends  in  shame. 

A  gracious  woman  whose  reserve  denies 

The  power  to  utter  what  consumes  her  heart. 

Such  instances  (and  some  a  loss  to  know. 

Which  steadfast  reticence  will  shield  from  those, 

Debased  or  garrulous,  whose  hearts  corrupt. 

But  learn  the  gloomy  secrets  of  their  kind 

To  poison-tip  their  wit,  or  grope  and  grin 

"With  pharisaic  laughter  at  disgrace) — 

Such  instances  as  these  demand  no  guide 

To  thrid  the  dismal  issues  from  their  source  ! 

But  others  are  there,  lying  fast  concealed. 

Dark,  hopeless,  and  unutterably  sad, 

Which  have  not  been,  and  never  may  be  known. 


APPENDIX. 


OMITTED  m  THE  COLLECTED  EDITION". 

George  Gordon  M'Crab,  himself  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful Australian  poets,  writes  : 

"I  send  you  a  verse  I  got  from  my  friend  John 
Shillinglaw,  who,  like  myself,  was  a  friend  of  Gordon. 

"  I  cannot  conceive  why  Gordon  should  have  cut  out 
this  concluding  verse,  as  it  seems  to  my  mind  to  confer 
a  completeness  upon  the  whole  that  would  be  wanting 
witliout.  The  poem,  it  will  be  remembered,  ends  in  the 
volume  of  his  works  with — 

" '  I  may  chance  to  hear  them  romping  overhead.' 

It  originally  ended  thus — 

" '  I  don't  suppose  I  shall,  though,  for  I  feel  like  sleeping  sound, 

That  sleep  they  say  is  doubtful.     True  ;  but  yet 

At  least  it  makes  no  difl'erence  to  the  dead  man  underground 

What  the  living  men  remember  or  forget. 

Enigmas  that  perplex  us  in  the  world's  unequal  strife. 

The  future  may  ignore  or  may  reveal. 

Yet  SOME,  as  weak  as  water,  Ned  /  to  make  the  best  of  life, 

Have  been,  to  face  the  worst,  as  true  as  steel.'  " 


APPENDIX.  6°3 


GORDON'S  VALEDICTORY  POEM. 

Lay  me  low,  my  work  is  done, 

I  am  weary.     Lay  me  low. 
Where  the  wild  flowers  woo  the  sun, 

Where  the  halmy  breezes  blow, 
Where  the  butterfly  takes  wing, 

Wli.ere  the  aspens,  drooping,  grow. 
Where  the  young  birds  chirp  and  sing- 

I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

I  have  striven  hard  and  long 

In  the  world's  unequal  fight, 
Always  to  resist  the  wrong,  ^ 

Always  to  maintain  the  right. 
Always  with  a  stubborn  heart. 

Taking,  giving  blow  for  blow  ; 
Brother,  I  have  played  my  part, 

And  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

Stern  the  world  and  bitter  cold. 

Irksome,  painful  to  endure  ; 
Everywhere  a  love  of  gold, 

Nowhere  pity  for  the  poor. 
Everywhere  mistrust,  disguise, 

Pride,  hypocrisy,  and  show. 
Draw  the  curtain,  close  mine  eyes, 

I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

Other  chance  when  I  am  gone 
May  restore  the  battle-call. 

Bravely  lead  the  good  cause  on 
Fighting  in  the  which  I  fall. 


6o4  APPENDIX. 

God  may  quicken  some  true  soul 
Here  to  take  my  place  below 

In  the  heroes'  muster  roll — 
I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

Shield  and  buckler,  hang  them  up, 

Drape  the  standards  on  the  wall, 
I  have  drained  the  mortal  cup 

To  the  finish,  dregs  and  all ; 
When  our  work  is  done,  'tis  best. 

Brother,  best  that  we  should  go — 
I  am  weary,  let  me  rest, 

I  am  weary,  lay  me  low. 


John  Hood  has  published  a  volume  entitled  The  Laiid 
of  the  Fern — a  collection  of  Australian  ballads  and  poems 
(Melbourne:  Barton,  Dunn,  &  Wilkinson,  1885). 

THOSE  YEARS. 

Sing  on,  sweet  zephyr,  sing  thy  lay. 
Sing  to  the  white  waves'  ebb  and  flow, 
Say'st  thou  how  like  our  hopes  are  they 

That  come  and  go  ? 
Say'st  thou  our  hopes  are  like  the  waves 
That  toss  upon  life's  fitful  sea. 
Still  tending  onward  to  thy  shore, 

Eternity  1 
Sing  on  !  what  secrets  lie  below 
The  restless  ocean's  heaving  breast 
Sing  on,  ye  waves,  that  ebb  and  flow 

And  know  no  rest. 


APPENDIX.  eo5 

Say'st  thou  what  feelings  dwell  within 
Each  mortal  pulsing  human  heart  1 
What  stories,  woukl'st  thou  enter  in, 
Thou  could'st  impart. 


While  musing  thus,  there  came  along 
A  wandering  form,  across  the  reach — 
Mute,  listening  to  the  ocean's  song 

Upon  the  beach. 
The  fisher's  voice  from  off  the  pier 
Came  softened  on  the  breezy  air, 
And  fell  with  sadness  on  her  ear 

And  lingered  there. 
Aye  !  lingered  there  to  speak  serene. 
To  waft  her  memory  back  to  years 
Fraught  with  dear  visions  dimly  seen 

Through  blinding  tears. 
AHsions  of  faces  came  and  went. 
But  one  dear  face  she  loved  to  trace 
There — with  the  others  strangely  blent, 

A  dear  kind  face. 
Ah  !  loving  heart,  oh  how  she  longed 
To  lean  upon  that  heart  again, 
And  tell  how  deeply  she  had  wronged 

And  caused  it  pain. 
Back  thro'  the  dark  clouds  of  the  Past 
The  light'ning  of  her  memory  darts, 
A  maiden's  love — then  Pride — at  last 

Two  alien  hearts. 
Back  !  to  the  pleasures  of  her  youth 
Swift,  through  the  years  that  intervene. 
He  lives  !  redeemed  by  light  of  truth 

Now  plainly  seen. 


6o5  APPENDIX. 

The  impulse  of  thy  -woman's  mind, 
So  quick  !  so  ready  to  condemn 
A  little  while  ;  0  heart  so  kind  ! 

0  best  of  men  ! 
The  soft-voiced  breeze,  that  to  the  shore 
Whispers  its  love-song  day  by  day, 
Spoke  through  the  waves  this  magic  lore, 

And  seemed  to  say — 
"  Dear  Elsie  !  dost  thou  see  afar 
That  golden  track  upon  the  sea  ? " 
"  All  me  !  I  see  a  waning  star 

Whose  beams  to  me 
Are  like  those  failing  hopes  of  mine, 
Weak  hopes  that  end  in  nothingness." 
"Ah  !  sad  indeed  that  life  of  thine 

Hope  may  not  bless  " — 
"  Kay  !  rather  say,  that  golden  path 
Ends  in  the  star's  celestial  light. 
And  brightest  when  the  darkness  hath 

Possessed  the  night." 


She  starts  !     What  is  there  in  that  tone, 
Then  trembling  sinks  'mid  hopes  and  fears. 
She  looks — she  clings — she  gasps  :  "  My  own, 
Those  weary  years  !  "  .  .  . 

Those  years  will  never  come  again, 
Yet  in  the  after  glow  thou'lt  find, 
Though  youthful  years  be  fled — yet  peace 
Is  left  behind. 

Then  sing,  sweet  zephyr,  sing  thy  lay ; 
Sing  to  the  white  waves'  ebb  and  flow, 
And  tell  how  like  our  hopes  are  they 
That  come  and  go. 


APPENDIX.  607 

TASMA. 

[(Mme.  Creuvreur,  nie  Huybers),  is  the  most  popular  of  living 
colonial  novelists  in  the  colonies,  and  has  a  story  running 
in  the  Australasian.  She  is  also  a  brilliant  essayist,  and  has 
published  poems  of  great  beauty  in  the  Australian  journals. 
The  editor  has  unfortunately  only  been  able  to  lay  his  hands 
on  two  of  them.] 

A  DIRGE. 
From  the  "Australasian"  of  the  2ist  August  1886. 

Ay,  dead !     And  all  the  wealth  of  golden  hair, 

Smoothed  for  the  last  time  from  the  fair  young  brow ; 

Ah  God  !  to  look  upon  her  lying  there, 

To  think  of  six  short  months  ago,  and  now  ! 

And  now  !     "Whom  the  Gods  love  die  young,  they  say, 
And  she  was  young,  and  all  that  youth  can  give 

Of  flowerlike  sweetness,  scent  of  blooms  in  May, 
Was  hers,  and  in  her  presence  seemed  to  live. 

And  fair  as  young  !  alas,  those  radiant  eyes, 
Blue  as  the  night-sky  in  the  month  of  June, 

That  shone  on  life,  as  though  in  sweet  surprise, 
To  find  their  cup  of  joy  thus  filled  so  soon. 

Those  soft  and  starlike  eyes  !     The  lashes  rest 

On  cheeks  as  pale  as  monumental  stone ; 
The  small  deft  hands  lie  crossed  upon  the  breast 

In  chill  quiescence.     All  death's  very  own. 

Poor  child  !  poor  wife  !  poor  mother  !  torn  away 
From  all  she  loved,  and  flung  to  the  unknown 

Heaven  or  Nirvana.     Be  it  what  it  may 

Matters  not  much ;  her  home  was  with  her  own. 


6o8  APPENDIX. 

Her  home  was  here.     The  bliss  of  saints  on  high, 
And  white-robed  angels  bearing  wreaths  of  palms, - 

What  answer  makes  it  to  the  mother's  cry 

Who  yearns  to  hold  her  children  in  her  arms  1 

What  answer  makes  it  to  the  husband's  heart  ? 

Nay — rather  death  with  no  awakening, 
Than  change  so  awful  as  that  she  should  part 

From  him,  content  to  soar  on  angel's  wing. 

To  separate  spheres  of  being,  separate  bliss — 
O  mystery  of  life,  and  love,  and  death  ! 

Souls  blended  to  be  riven.     Lips  to  kiss, 
Hearts  unto  hearts  to  grow,  and  all  for  this. 

Here  where  the  gentlest  soul  that  ere  drew  breath, 
Lies  heedless  of  the  bitter  grief  around, 

Wrapped  in  the  cold  indifference  of  death. 
What  answer  to  our  helpless  wail  is  found  ? 

Nay,  for  an  answer  look  not  here  !     But  wait ! 

Nor  beg,  nor  curse  !  for  still  the  end  must  come, 
And  still  the  end  may  prove  that  God  or  Fate 

Is  fain  through  blood  and  tears  to  lead  us  home. 


ADDENDA. 


WILLIAM  J.  STEWARD,  M.ILE. 

[Of  Ashburton,  Xew  Zealand.  A  true  poet.  Author  of  "Carmina 
Varia,"  by  Justin  Aubrey  (Dunedin,  New  Zealand  :  Ferguson 
&  Mitchell).    Poems  came  too  late  to  insert  biographical  details.] 

THE  DYIXG  OF  THE  DAY. 

Upon  a  couch,  "n-itli  gorgeous  splendour  drest, 

Day  lay  a-dying  in  the  amber  west, 

Silent  and  sad,  for  since  his  race  begun 

He  had  known  much  of  sorrow  'neath  the  sun. 

Bereft  of  all  his  children,  the  fair  hours, 
That  bloomed  and  faded  like  the  summer  flowers, 
Save  one,  the  last,  of  all-surpassing  charms, 
That  lay  a-dying  with  him,  in  his  arms. 

And  sorrowful  the  royal  couch  beside, 

Sat  pale-browed  Evening,  the  old  monarch's  bride, 

Lonely  in  grief,  as  tearfully  she  smiled 

Upon  her  hoary  spouse  and  sunny  child. 

Silence  reigned  all  around,  for  Nature's  choir 
Had  hushed  their  songs  to  view  the  God  expire ; 
And  she  stood  tiptoe,  and  with  bated  breath 
Watched,  through  the  casement,  the  old  monarch's  death. 

2  Q 


6xo  ADDENDA. 

And  soon  it  came,  the  life-light  left  his  eye, 
And  tlirough  the  palace-windows  came  a  sigh, 
Deep-drawn,  and  faint,  from  out  the  distant  west, 
As  of  one  weary,  sinking  into  rest. 

The  Hour  M'as  gone,  and  with  it  died  the  Day, 
And  o'er  them  Evening  threw  a  pall  of  gvcij, 
Then  kissed  the  placid  features  of  the  dead, 
And  drew  her  dusky  curtains  round  the  bed ; 

Then  lighting  np  a  star  she  hung  it  high, 
For  a  pale  corpse-light,  in  the  fading  sky, 
And  as  from  out  their  lairs  began  to  creep 
The  sombre  shadows  she  went  forth  to  Aveep  ; 

And  up  and  down  the  garden  Earth  she  passed, 

And  as  she  walked  her  tears  fell  thick  and  fast ; 

And  then  returning  with  a  solemn  tread, 

Slie  robed  herself  in  mourning  for  the  dead. 

And  clothed  in  black,  and  crowned  with  jewels  bright 

Went  forth  to  watch  until  the  mornint?  licrht. 


EOBEET  LOWE,  VISCOUis^T  SHERBKOOKE. 

[All  the  world  knows  his  career  as  first  a  Sydney  and  afterwards 
an  Imperial  politician.  Has  published  a  small  volnme  "  Poems 
of  a  Life  "  (London  :  Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co.,  1855),  which 
contains  his  celebrated  "Songs  of  the  Squatters,"  one  of  which 
is  quoted  below.  The  Editor  has  to  thank  Patchett  Martin 
for  reminding  him  of  the  omission.] 

SONGS  OF  THE  SQUATTERS  CNo.  2). 

The  commissioner  bet  me  a  pony — I  won, 
So  he  cut  off  exactly  two-thirds  of  my  run ; 
Eor  he  said  I  was  making  a  fortune  too  fast. 
And  profit  gained  slower  the  longer  would  last. 


ADDENDA.  6il 

He  remarked,  as  devouring  my  mutton  he  sat, 
That  I  suffered  my  sheep  to  grow  sadly  too  fat ; 
That  they  Avasted  waste  hmd,  did  prerogative  brown, 
And  rebelliously  nibbled  the  droits  of  the  Crown ; — 

That  the  creek  that  divided  my  station  in  two 
Showed  that  Nature  designed  that  two  fees  should  be  due. 
Mt.  Riddle  assured  me  'twas  paid  but  for  show, 
But  he  kept  it  and  spent  it,  tliat's  all  that  I  know. 

The  commissioner  fined  me  because  I  forgot 

To  return  an  old  ewe  that  was  ill  of  the  rot. 

And  a  poor  wry-necked  lamb  that  we  kept  for  a  pet ; 

And  he  said  it  was  treason  such  things  to  forget. 

The  commissioner  pounded  my  cattle  because 

They  had  mumbled  the  scrub  with  their  famishing  jaws 

On  the  part  of  the  run  he  had  taken  away. 

And  he  sold  them  by  auction  the  costs  to  defray. 

The  border  police  they  were  out  all  the  day 
To  look  for  some  thieves  who  had  ransacked  my  dray ; 
Eut  the  thieves  they  continued  in  quiet  and  peace, 
For  they'd  robbed  it  themselves  had  the  border  police  ! 

"When  the  white  thieves  had  left  me  the  black  thieves 

appeared, 
!My  shepherds  they  waddied,  my  cattle  they  speared ; 
But  from  fear  of  my  licence  I  said  not  a  word, 
For  I  knew  it  was  gone  if  the  Government  heard. 

The  commissioner's  bosom  with  anger  was  filled 
Against  me  because  my  poor  shepherd  was  killed ; 
So  he  straight  took  away  the  last  third  of  my  run, 
And  got  it  transferred  to  the  name  of  his  son. 


6l2 


ADDENDA. 


The  son  had  from  Cambridge  been  lately  expelled, 
And  his  licence  for  preaching  most  justly  withheld  ! 
But  this  is  no  cause,  the  commissioner  says, 
Why  he  should  not  be  fit  for  my  licence  to  graze. 

The  cattle  that  had  not  been  sold  at  the  pound, 
He  took  with  the  run  at  five  shillings  all  round ; 
And  the  sheep  the  blacks  left  me  at  sixpence  a  head ; — 
A  very  good  price,  the  commissioner  said. 

The  Governor  told  me  I  justly  was  served. 
That  commissioners  never  from  duty  had  swerved ; 
Eut  that  if  I'd  a  fancy  for  any  more  land 
For  one  pound  an  acre  he'd  plenty  on  hand. 

I'm  not  very  proud  !  I  can  dig  in  a  bog, 
Feed  pigs,  or  for  firewood  can  split  up  a  log. 
Clean  shoes,  riddle  cinders,  or  help  to  boil  down — 
Anything  that  you  please,  but  graze  lands  of  the  Crown  ! 


TPIB   EXD. 


TKlNrED    BY   BALLANTYNE,    HANSON    AND   CO. 
EDINBURGH   AND   LONDON, 

•  V. — looo — 12/80. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


^e-O  LD-URi 

i^  fit  , 
■E6  211.968 


Form  L9-100in-9,'52(A3105)444 


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A  A  001  427  193  6 


L  009  599  985  0 


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